


The Unchosen

by maychorian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Force Bond (Star Wars), Gen, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Recovery, Sickfic, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 08:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 100,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19742161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maychorian/pseuds/maychorian
Summary: Qui-Gon's parents chose not to give him to the Jedi as an infant. Now he lives the simple life, content in doing good where he can. But missed opportunities have a way of coming around again, and the Force has a way of finding the right path regardless of individual choices.Originally posted to ff.n on 06-02-05.





	1. Jedi on Bandomeer

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this fic is incomplete at 100k+ words. I MIGHT someday finish it, but the odds are low. However, it does end on a pretty emotionally satisfying note, I think. I just had some dangling plot threads that I really should have left out.
> 
> Obi-Wan is also maybe a touch OOC. But you know. It serves my need for platonic cuddling, as all OOC-ness in my writing does.

"I heard that a shuttle from the Jedi Temple is landing today."

Qui-Gon Jinn looked up from the morning newsflimsy, taking a moment to savor the sight of his wife as she sat across the table, bathed in early morning sunlight that caught her rich, dark hair in subtle highlights. He lived by the creed that every moment was precious, but this certainly was a delightful one. Letting the flimsy droop in his loose grip, he willed the moment to continue for as long as it wished.

Julune's full lips lifted at the corners, tiny wrinkles appearing around her eyes, and faint color rose to her cheeks. "Dearheart, I just made the bed. It's very neat and tidy and I don't want to do it again."

"Who said anything about the bed?"

She smirked at him.

Qui-Gon grinned mischievously and shook the flimsy out, laying it beside his plate. "Sorry, sweetheart. What were you saying? Something about a shuttle?"

"A shuttle with supplies for the Agri-Corps is landing at tenth hour." She shrugged lightly, toying with her teacup. "Just a bit of news I thought you might find interesting. Do you have any plans for the day?"

Qui-Gon shook his head, loading his utensil with scrambled girok eggs and lifting it to his mouth. "Maybe I'll stop by and see if they need help unloading." The eggs all but melted on his tongue, with just the right hint of salt and spice. "Scrumptious as always, darling. And you? Any exciting plans in the offing?"

"Just more harvesting and culture monitoring. They're coming along very well—we might actually have something worth studying from Bandomeer."

As always, Julune's color rose when she thought or spoke of her research. She sloshed her tea, spilling a few drops, and did not notice, to Qui-Gon's ever-fresh delight. He loved this side of her, the curious scientist forever excited by what new discovery might be around the next experiment or data sheet. Her eagerness sometimes made her clumsy, fumbling over her own feet like a puppy with paws too big for its body, and he found this endlessly endearing.

Julune's dark eyes softened, and she looked at him with a gentle smile. "I'm looking forward to returning to Thyferra, though."

She fidgeted suddenly, and stood to begin clearing the empty dishes. Qui-Gon rose to forestall her, placing a hand on the tender swell of her belly. "I am too," he murmured against her ear. "Our garden will need tending. And we'll be there all through the growing season, for once."

"Maybe longer," she whispered back, leaning into his caress. "I'm tired of hopping about the galaxy studying climates. Let another young researcher take over. Our garden is full of rare specimens that need special care, and we've neglected them too long."

He smiled, breathing the scent of her rich hair, slowly stroking the warm flesh beneath his fingertips. Soon there would be more to feel there, he hoped. They had tried in vain for years, too many, and now they would savor every moment of this new development in their lives.

"He will be a strong, compassionate boy, just like his papa," Julune murmured, her cheek on his shoulder.

"She will be a beautiful, loving girl, just like her mama," he corrected.

She laughed warmly. This argument would not be resolved for another seven months, but neither minded. It was a sweet dispute, made the sweeter by the knowledge that the time was coming when it _would_ be answered.

They cleared the table together, taking pleasure in frequent brushes and light nips. At one point Qui-Gon paused abruptly, his head tilted slightly to one side, the washcloth limp in his hand. Julune recognized the glazed look in his eyes and touched his cheek softly to catch his attention.

"Getting one of your feelings, dearheart?"

Qui-Gon shook his head, clearing the cobwebs, and looked back at her with a slight frown. "Mmm . . . perhaps. Change, maybe, if events happen in a certain way."

Her brow wrinkled. "Change for good or bad?"

He sighed. "It isn't clear. Perhaps it will become so later." Or perhaps the feeling would pass, as it sometimes did. He gave her a smile. "Nothing to be done about it, in any case."

Julune patted his cheek gently. "Very well. Keep me informed, though."

"Always, darling."

They finished their morning routine and parted with their usual kiss at the door. Julune was eager to return to her azhali cultures and record the overnight developments. Qui-Gon thought that perhaps he would meet that shuttle, after all.

X

Bandor was a dirty city on a dirty world, the sky above gray and flecked with the detritus of burning, the land about parched with neglect and ravished by deep, constant mining. Of all the worlds Julune's research had taken them to, Qui-Gon felt the least happy and the least at home on this one. He knew it was because of his instinctive connection to the Living Force, which Jedi Knight Dooku had explained to him. The Knight had been astonished by how strong his connection was, even without the training and nurturing it would have had if Qui-Gon's parents had chosen to give him to the Jedi. Surrounded by a dying nature, his connection faltered and gasped, begging for something to hold onto.

The only places on Bandomeer that Qui-Gon felt truly at peace were in the Enrichment Zones set up by the Agri-Corps. Surrounded by green growing things, his bare toes mucky with dirt and his face raised to a clear, domed sky, he felt whole and complete, simultaneously a part of the universe and aware of the totality of existence. Lately he had taken to visiting the domed areas whenever he could, as the daily sight of the plundered planet burdened him more and more.

Not that Qui-Gon had found nothing good in Bandor—far from it. Even as he walked down the street, beings on all sides greeted him in the Meerian way, arms outstretched with the palms up, calling cheerfully to him. The night shift was returning home from the mines, trudging wearily, the day shift moving to replace them with hurried steps to avoid tardiness, but many found time to greet the big human who had been a part of their community for a scant few weeks.

Qui-Gon returned their greetings pleasantly, compassionate understanding burning bright within him. Even before he had married his beloved scientist, he had never settled down to a job. Nothing seemed to fit. He wandered from pilot to gunner to cantina owner to dishwasher without lighting on any occupation that satisfied him. He had just decided to look into farming, as a matter of fact, when he met Julune. Perhaps he would have found some peace there.

But as it was, Qui-Gon found a great deal of pleasure in wandering about the galaxy with his well-paid wife, doing whatever came to hand that brought help to others and a warm glow to himself. He had always had a natural knack for settling disputes—he had an instinct for whether a being was trustworthy, and an intuitive sense of the wisest course to take. His broad, easy strength often served those who could not complete some weighty task on their own, and his gentle demeanor won him a simple trust from many who turned their faces from most authority figures. Helpful, too, was his "nose for trouble," as Julune called it. And a large nose it was, bent but unbroken.

He had endeared himself to the people of Bandomeer within a few days of arriving here, when he helped with a collapse in the Home Planet Mine, saving several miners who otherwise would have perished. Soon enough the people had begun to come to him for help and advice, sensing a large heart that would turn no one away. On every planet they had visited so far, Qui-Gon's stay had followed the same basic pattern, with innumerable interesting variations, of course.

Qui-Gon had learned to trust his feelings, as the Jedi Knight had long ago instructed him. He was, indeed, getting one of them now. As he strolled amiably toward the tiny spaceport it became a bit clearer, though not enough to provide direction. He sensed only some sort of need. Either he needed something on that shuttle—which was likely, as he'd been thinking about getting a new pair of trousers for quite some time—or something on the shuttle needed him. The second possibility made much less sense, so he focused on the first, hoping for the feeling to clear further.

Jinn often helped with the unloading of supply shuttles—much the way that a kind young man would help his friends move again and again and again—so the dockmaster, BonMi, was not surprised to see him. They spent the time until the shuttle arrived in easy gossip and light-hearted chit-chat, only resorting to BonMi's sabbacc deck when it became clear that the shuttle was going to be late. BonMi had heard that this particular shuttle had encountered some trouble on the way—pirates—and he shared the sketchy details he knew while they waited.

It wasn't yet eleventh hour when the damaged shuttle began to descend from the speckled gray sky, hull plating scorched in places, steam drifting from a vent that wasn't on the ship in the original design. The six workers from Agri-Corps had arrived at tenth hour, greeting the dockmaster and the now-familiar human with friendly smiles and gestures, and now the eight of them watched the landing gear shakily extend from the bottom of the shuttle.

The pilot had a delicate touch, and Qui-Gon only heard the slightest rattle of damaged plating as the vessel set down. A hiss from the hydraulics as the wings folded upward and the ramp descended, and the Agri-Corps workers converged to greet their contact from the Jedi Temple. Qui-Gon and the dockmaster stood back, giving them room, but they watched with curiosity. It wasn't often that the Temple sent one of their own, and Qui-Gon, in particular, hadn't seen a Jedi for several years.

A swirl of long brown robes, and Qui-Gon blinked. There were two of them. A tall man with black hair and pale blue eyes . . . and a young boy.


	2. Cast Away

At first Qui-Gon thought he was looking at a Master-Padawan team, but then he noticed that the boy didn't have a braid. He was still an initiate. Also, the older Jedi didn't have the look of Master about him—Qui-Gon felt no sense of protectiveness for the boy, no affection or pride, as he imagined all Masters had for their apprentices, as Dooku had had for him even though Qui-Gon was not a Jedi. From the pale-eyed young man Qui-Gon sensed . . . regret. Regret, pain, stubbornness . . . but nothing of a Jedi Master with a young Padawan.

For the boy was very young indeed. After the first, cursory glance, Qui-Gon found his eyes straying often to the youngster, as the adult Jedi talked to the Agri-Corps workers. The boy looked tired, nigh exhausted, as if he was just recovering from injury or illness. And it was more than a physical weariness . . . this weariness seemed to seep into the boy's bones, laying hold to spiritual and emotional depths that it had no right to touch. It emanated from the boy in turgid waves, an utter despair that Qui-Gon shuddered at.

None of this showed in the boy's features and stance, save for the shadows of weariness blotted beneath his eyes. He held himself straight, dignified, the somewhat foul Bandomeer breeze lifting reddish-brown locks off his smooth forehead. He would be a very appealing child, if his face was not so solemn and worn.

 _His eyes should be brighter,_ Qui-Gon thought, irrationally and without evidence. _Those eyes ought to be always shining with life and vigor, brilliant, lit from within. They are not meant to sit so dully there, as if they have no purpose but as holes to let in the sights of the world. The boy's soul should be looking out of them, eager to see and experience life. Something has gone awry for this lad._

The boy glanced up for a moment, met Qui-Gon's gaze through the crowd. He quickly looked away again.

"Thank you for bringing the supplies, Knight Xanatos," Heim Shilbey, the Agri-Corps supervisor, said warmly. "We understand that you had a rough trip from Coruscant."

The pale-eyed man, Xanatos, nodded wearily. "Very rough, yes. And your new recruit from the Temple acquitted himself well." Briefly the long-fingered hand alighted on the boy's shoulder, and the young one's gaze flicked up to the Knight's face, then swiftly away. "Obi-Wan Kenobi will be a credit to your operations here."

"I don't doubt it." Heim grinned, giving the boy a rough pat on the arm. "Tangled with a few Togorians, did you?"

The boy—Obi-Wan Kenobi—merely nodded. Qui-Gon felt a sudden surging desire to hear the whole story behind that. Perhaps the youngster's fatigue could be attributed to a battle with Togorian pirates; perhaps the dullness in his gaze was simply from the shock of a harsh introduction to the galaxy after sheltered Temple life. But somehow, Qui-Gon didn't think so.

"Well, let's get to work on these supplies, shall we?"

Qui-Gon moved forward with the others, and they began off-loading bags and crates from the shuttle into the Agri-Corps grav truck. Xanatos took the boy Obi-Wan aside, speaking quietly to him. Jinn should not have been able to hear the nearly-silent conversation, especially occupied as he was, but one of the many hidden talents he harbored from Knight Dooku's unofficial tutoring was an ability to focus the senses to a startling degree. If he weren't experiencing it himself, Qui-Gon would not believe that a human could see so sharply or hear so clearly, but he could.

"You will focus on your mission," Xanatos said firmly. "It is your last mission. It will take you through the rest of your life."

"To be a farmer . . ." Obi-Wan murmured.

 _Hello! Farming is good for the soul!_ Qui-Gon thought. But that wasn't the way Obi-Wan saw it. The despair in the boy sharpened, seemed almost to weep for untasted delights now forever denied him.

"To be a cultivator of life," Xanatos interrupted. "To feed the hungry. To bring hope to those who have none. It is a noble calling."

Obi-Wan's despair had made him reckless. "But it isn't _my_ calling! Please, Knight Xanatos, if you'd just . . ."

"No." Xanatos paused to pull in a deep breath. "I know you believe that you are meant to be a knight, Obi-Wan. But if that were so, the Force would have brought a master to you."

A brief pause, full of flurried emotion swiftly hidden. Qui-Gon was in the shuttle for the moment, so he could not see the pair, but he could imagine the young hands spread in supplication, the older ones raised in negation.

Obi-Wan sighed. "I will not ask again."

"Good." The older voice had softened slightly. "I cannot train you. We are . . . too much alike. I see myself in you. And that . . . frightens me."

"I will not turn."

 _Brave words, strongly spoken,_ Qui-Gon thought wonderingly. The boy's despair had not yet destroyed that conviction. He truly believed that statement with all of his heart.

"And I did not turn," Xanatos said, almost gently. "But it was a near thing. Too near. I . . . I cannot risk it. I'm sorry. It's not you, please believe that."

Again the boy's despair sharpened and increased, all but overwhelming Qui-Gon with its intensity. He thought he caught an echo of Obi-Wan's thoughts, faint and distant and somehow fragile, formed of thin ice sculpture that would shatter at a touch. _If that's true, why did no one choose me? Why did every master pass me by? It_ must _be something in me that drove them away!_

Now the voice of Xanatos _was_ gentle. "You will do much good in the Agri-Corps, Obi-Wan. Focus on that. Don't look to the past—it will only hurt you."

Resignation now, taut, quiet. "Thank you, Knight Xanatos. I will."

Qui-Gon ached—no one so young should speak in such a way. It seemed unbearably cruel, that this boy should work his entire life for a single goal only to have it snatched away at the eleventh hour. Qui-Gon did not know life in the Temple, had only gathered parts of it from descriptions and reminisces, but he could imagine. And he could feel it in this child, discarded for reasons he could not control, nor even influence much.

Jinn was outside now, waiting in line to deposit his latest armload in the grav truck, and he saw Xanatos place a hand on the boy's shoulder. It was not truly a friendly gesture, not offered in comfort or reassurance, and Obi-Wan obviously gathered none from the cool touch. It seemed like a last push, casting the youngster away to fare as best he could in this new and hostile world.

Qui-Gon felt many urges tugging on him, like confused currents in a troubled sea, none of them firm or even coherent. He could get no fix on them, could not find direction for how he ought to respond to this new ache. Uncharacteristically, he faltered.

With so many hands bent to the task, the grav truck was soon loaded. Qui-Gon almost stepped forward then, but Obi-Wan Kenobi clambered into the cab, his eyes downcast. Heim Shilbey shook hands with Xanatos, then gave Qui-Gon and BonMi the Meerian farewell, hands extended with the palms up, then turned downward. Then the Agri-Corps truck departed.

Xanatos made arrangements with BonMi for the repair of his shuttle, then disappeared onboard, apparently to a bunk-room there. Qui-Gon and the Meerian gave each other a shrug, as if to say, _Offworlders. Whatcha gonna do?_

With a soft sigh, Qui-Gon turned back to the city. As always, he would wander, stopping to chat here and there, to play with a street child, to help an overburdened merchant with his goods, to watch a family interact and dream of the gift growing in his wife's belly. Swiftly enough the day would pass, as it always did, and soon he would be able to discuss these strange new sensations with Julune.

X

"I thought I heard the boy's thoughts. His thoughts! Is that even possible?"

Julune shook her head, the side of her mouth twisting upward. "You would know better than I. Did you ever experience such with the Knight who taught you?"

Qui-Gon shook his head thoughtfully, leaning back into lumpy cushions of the couch in their temporary home. "We had a bit of a connection, just enough that he was able to help me learn the meditation exercises by showing me. Knight Dooku said that if we were truly Master and Padawan, the connection would be much stronger, to the point that we would always be aware of each other's feelings unless we deliberately blocked them out."

She snuggled against his arm, nuzzling her nose against his solid bicep. "Could you have formed such a connection spontaneously?"

"I don't know." Qui-Gon frowned, lowering the datapad he'd been reading into his lap as his eyes lost focus. "I feel that I ought to find out, though."

"Then do." Julune settled her shoulders back against the couch, running her fingers over the screen of his datapad. "Read to us, big papa?"

Qui-Gon felt a big, goofy grin spread over his face. This was fun. He was a little bit shy about it, as it seemed rather silly, but as she'd asked for it . . .

Carefully he lay down, his long legs dangling over the arm of the couch, and nestled his cheek against the swell of her abdomen, holding the datapad before his face. "Comfortable?"

He felt Julune's fingers carding through his hair, and the gentle quaking of her laughter. "Extremely."

Qui-Gon began to read, pitching his voice to be heard both by his wife and child. He rather hoped they made this a part of their evening routine. Family togetherness. The best thing in the galaxy.


	3. Communion

Now, when Qui-Gon made his visits to the Enrichment Zones, communing with the Living Force was not his only reason. He did not fully acknowledge his other purpose, newborn and not yet grown to maturity, but it was there. His senses were always wide open, not only to the streams of the Force from healthy vegetation, rich soil, and clean air as before, but also keeping a corner of his perception open for a certain . . . something.

It would have been simpler just to speak with Heim Shilbey and ask for a meeting with the newest Agri-Corps recruit, but somehow Qui-Gon couldn't bring himself to do that. It just sounded . . . odd, for a grown man to want to see a young boy. A bit suspicious. He had no good reasons to offer for this strange request, either—he couldn't exactly tell them that he was a half-trained Force-sensitive who thought he might be developing an unsanctioned connection with a stranger he'd never even spoken to.

And the Force seemed to advise him not to speak to Shilbey, to wait. Qui-Gon was good at waiting, though as the days passed without contact, he did begin to wonder.

Eight days after the shuttle from the Jedi Temple landed, Qui-Gon was able to visit the largest Enrichment Zone, the one in the south. The Agri-Corps workers knew him, greeting him cheerfully in the ways of their various species, often with a "May the Force be with you, good sir!" He had a friendly smile and wave for all. One of the younger ones, Nira, walked with him for a time, gossiping about the mining on Bandomeer, the negotiations between different factions.

"They're talking about this one mining corporation, Offworld or something like that," the young woman chattered, lengthening her stride to keep up with his long legs. "It used to be a lot bigger, but about three years ago it had some trouble. I think the owner died and didn't have an heir, something like that. Just recently they started shutting down some of their operations here, like that deep-sea platform. Apparently it just wasn't making enough money."

"They've found traces of ionite at the Home Planet Mine," Qui-Gon said, willing to gossip back. He considered asking her if there were any newcomers to this zone, but it didn't seem like the right time. "I like what I've heard of the way they do business, very fair to their workers, unlike some corps. There's also been an influx of Arconan immigrants, lately, which seems to bode well. They are very industrious and good-hearted. Perhaps things are looking up for Bandomeer."

Nira nodded. "We sure hope so. It's about time. Well, I'd best get back to my seedlings. Nice seeing you, Mr. Jinn—don't be a stranger! Been too long since you stopped by this zone."

He chuckled, and she rushed off, one arm aloft in a hasty wave. Qui-Gon continued toward the back wall, delighting in the feel of good, healthy mud squishing beneath his feet, fruit trees in ordered rows perfuming the air about him. He paused for a moment to take off his boots and continued barefoot, closing his eyes to soak in all of the Living Force he could gather, his deep connection to everything about him preventing any stumbles or wavering from his destination.

At the wall, he settled down into a cross-legged position, closing his eyes and stretching out with his senses. One of the Jedi skills Knight Dooku had stressed most with him was meditation, for it had the greatest potential of helping untrained Force-sensitives grow more attuned to their powers—and what ought to be done with them. Qui-Gon had quickly found that he enjoyed it, becoming more aware both of himself and of everything around him. Certainly with guidance he would have been able to do much more in these times, but he had discovered quite a lot on his own, too.

Sometimes he tried to direct this spiritual wandering, but he usually found that to be less fruitful than when he simply opened himself to what the Force had to show him. Today he did the latter, reducing himself to a mere wisp, willing to be manipulated by the currents and winds. And today the Force had a brand-new discovery to reveal to him, unprecedented and completely wonderful.

It was a thread: a thin, insubstantial thread of pure light. The thread flowed through a corner of Qui-Gon's mind, leading inward to the depths of his spirit, leading outward to . . . something else. Marveling, he studied the thread for endless moments, watching it waver and shift, seeming to pulse with a heartbeat not his own. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch it, just for the smallest fraction of time.

The thread jumped at his touch as if it were alive, and he jerked back, wondering if he had done wrong. But the thread was brighter now, more lively, vibrating with . . . eagerness? Desire? Slowly, he touched it again, then firmed his grip, and watched the thread grow thicker and stronger with the mental contact.

He pulled back, staring at the thread which was now a cord, glowing no longer pure white, but innumerable colors. All of them meant something, he knew they did, but he did not know what they were. It was frustrating and exciting at once—such a new sensation this was, both beautiful and unsettling. He wished he had someone to teach him what it meant, what to do with it.

Knight Dooku. He would contact Dooku tonight, as soon as he returned home. He hadn't spoken to the Jedi in . . . well nigh a decade, wasn't it? But Dooku had said he would always be open to hearing from the younger man. He had felt a connection with young Qui-Gon, enough to ignore ancient practice and teach many Force skills to one who was outside his Order.

Qui-Gon looked again at the cord in his mind, trying to open himself to anything the Force might have to tell him about what it meant. Now he noticed darker spots against the brilliance, ranging from light gray to dark, splotchy brown. They were rare, but definitely present, and they troubled him greatly. Something was wrong. But what did it mean, and what could he do to heal it?

He sighed and withdrew, realizing that he had done all he could. He needed more information. This was too new and strange to meddle with—he might unwittingly do damage, not knowing how to handle this new part of his own mind.

Qui-Gon opened his eyes, and immediately blinked. A boy with reddish-sandy hair sat cross-legged before him, chin resting on his fists, elbows on knees, blue-gray eyes studying the man intently. It took him a moment to recognize Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The boy was grubby from working out of doors, his Jedi garments stained at elbow and knee, one hem beginning to fray. His hair was tousled and unkempt, sticking up in strange places, as if the youngster had just been roused from sleep. He looked just as exhausted as he had at the transport, just as pale and unwell, and was it possible that he had lost weight in only a week?

Qui-Gon frowned at the thought, then stilled his features as he realized how that would look to the boy. He was not displeased to see him—exactly the opposite. But didn't they take care of their young ones in the Agri-Corps? The child looked utterly forsaken and neglected. Qui-Gon, anticipating fatherhood in seven months, did not like it at all.

He wasn't fast enough. Obi-Wan saw the frown, and he leaned back, hands spread in apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." Qui-Gon shook his head quickly, and held out a hand in greeting. "I'm Qui-Gon Jinn."

The boy eyed his hand warily for a moment, then took it. His grip was loose and tentative, young fingers callused, though not in the pattern of a farmer. "Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"Pleased to meet you, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon shook his hand, squeezing gently but warmly, strangely aware of how small it was within his own, how chilled and uncertain.

Obi-Wan took his hand back and held it in the other, as if unconsciously checking it for injury. "I . . . I don't know how to say this, Mr. Jinn . . ."

"Call me Qui-Gon. Please."

Obi-Wan hesitated, his lips drawn tight in indecision, then nodded slowly. "Very well. Qui-Gon."

"And it's all right if I call you Obi-Wan?"

"Yes. It's all right." And there was the echo of a bitter, sorrowful thought hanging in the air. _You certainly can't call me 'Padawan.'_

"Good." Qui-Gon smiled, doing his best to make up for that earlier frown. "Did you have something to ask me, Obi-Wan? Feel free. If anyone is intruding here, it's me."

"I . . . I . . ." Obi-Wan suddenly squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as if trying to clear it. He looked to Qui-Gon again, helpless confusion in his face. "I don't understand it. I thought I felt someone . . . touch me. I followed the feeling back, and found you sitting here. Did you touch me?"

Qui-Gon felt his brow wrinkle in mirrored confusion. "Touch you? How could I have done that?"

"I . . . I don't know." Obi-Wan scrambled to his feet, misery deadening his eyes and slumping his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you. It's silly, silly . . ." Without warning he hurried away, one hand to his head as if to hold it on his shoulders, or to ward off sudden pain.

Qui-Gon jumped to his feet. "Obi-Wan, wait!" He wanted to follow, but felt rooted in place, staring as the slim figure vanished into the trees. "Obi-Wan!"

The boy didn't even glance back. Qui-Gon bit back a curse, almost stomping his foot in childish petulance.

 _The thread!_ Of course! How could he have been so dense? It _was_ a connection, formed by the Force and leading to this poor, desperately confused child. Obi-Wan must have felt it move and strengthen when Qui-Gon touched it. Obviously, the boy didn't know what it was or how to deal with it any more than Qui-Gon did.

Once again, Qui-Gon couldn't wait to get home and have a conversation.

X

Before Qui-Gon touched the comm, it buzzed with an incoming message. He stared at it for a moment, his finger centimeters from the button, then activated it. Heim Shilbey's holographic face appeared, creased in concern.

"Mr. Jinn? I'm sorry to trouble you at home, but Nira seemed to think you might be able to help us."

"I'm always willing to help." Qui-Gon nodded and crossed his arms over his chest, hiding his impatience. Why now? He had been just about to get some answers!

"Yes, you appear to have that reputation about Bandomeer. Quite commendable, considering you've only been here for a month and a half."

Qui-Gon shifted from foot to foot. "What's your problem? I'll be glad to offer any assistance that I can."

Shilbey kneaded his wrinkled forehead with a holographic hand. "One of our young workers has gone missing. Nira said she saw you talking with him, and she thought you might know something . . ."

Qui-Gon felt his heart drop into his stomach, the collision making him feel rather sick. "Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

"You know him! Yes, our newest recruit. He's been very withdrawn, hardly interacting with anyone, so I thought it odd when Nira mentioned . . . Mr. Jinn? Are you there?"

He was already gone.


	4. Following the Thread

The dark spots smudging the cord in Qui-Gon's mind were bigger, deeper, threatening to choke the brilliant flow of light. He kissed Julune good-bye with a brief, tangled explanation, and was out the door, grabbing his dark green cloak as he went. They had a speeder here, though they usually walked, or took public transports—Qui-Gon backed it out of the small garage attached to the temporary housing facility and roared off before he even thought of which way to go.

The Southern Zone was a couple of hours away from Bandor by speeder. Qui-Gon wasn't quite halfway there when he realized that he was heading in the wrong direction. Surprised, he slowed the speeder to a stop and idled it for a moment, staring sightlessly at the ravaged landscape as he pondered.

No doubt the Agri-Corps workers were searching within and in the immediate area of the zone, assuming that the boy had run away afoot. But Qui-Gon's instincts told a different story. Obi-Wan was quite far away from the zone by now. And he wasn't necessarily running.

Qui-Gon looked inward, almost in meditation but not quite. How had Obi-Wan described it? Ah, yes. He had followed the feeling back, and found Qui-Gon. There was no reason the man couldn't do the same. The cord—the connection—pulsed, faltered, and surged again. Confusion, fear . . . loneliness. Pain. Trapped, unable to escape. Helplessness. Terror.

North. North and west. Qui-Gon swung the speeder about and gunned the engine again, dust and small, chipped rocks flying up in his wake. The bloated red sun began to set, staining the tainted sky in blurs and streaks of sickly light. Qui-Gon tried not to breathe too deeply of the ash-flecked air, though his lungs strained to pant, to hyperventilate. He felt dizzy with urgency.

It took too long. It took far too long. What was the use of even having a speeder if it couldn't go faster than this? Qui-Gon was tempted to jump out and run.

A sudden easing, a sense of release, and Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, the relief not his own. The tense urgency relaxed slightly, though his foot still crushed the accelerator to the floor. The feeling of being trapped and helpless was gone. But the pain was increasing, taking on a physical overtone. The boy was suffering, confused and alone.

The thread became slippery in Qui-Gon's mental grip, fuzzing in and out. He tightened his fingers, and it slid away completely, drawing a growl of frustration from his lips. What had happened? He didn't know, didn't know how to get it back.

He reached the general area the thread had been leading him to and stopped the speeder, leaping out to continue the search on foot. The cord remained difficult to grasp, and he thought it might be thinning. Qui-Gon quit trying to grab it, afraid of causing more harm. He would continue this by other means.

"Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan Kenobi! Where are you? Don't be afraid, young one—I'm here to help you. Obi-Wan?"

Qui-Gon tramped over broken boulders and parched, uneven ground, dust rising at each footfall, sometimes drawing a cough. The dry, cracked earth seeped residual heat from the now-sinking sun as if this were a desert, though Bandomeer was generally quite temperate, if a bit given to violent storms. All in all, it was a miserable place to get lost in.

"Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan Kenobi!"

By all the twinkling stars, why hadn't he thought to grab the heavy-duty luma from the speeder? Qui-Gon fumbled on his belt, searching for the little multi-tool Julune had given him for his last nameday. Can opener, fuser, gripper . . . he flipped through the different heads and found the pin-light. It was better than nothing.

"Obi-Wan? It's Qui-Gon Jinn! Please try to answer me, little one! Obi-Wan!"

Qui-Gon paused, listening, his heart in his throat. What if the boy couldn't answer? What if he were seriously hurt? No, he couldn't focus on "if." Live in the moment. Find the boy _now._ The scent of this acrid wasteland stung his nostrils, mocking him with his futility.

"Obi-Wan!"

Was that a moan, or just the breeze murmuring in the pitted earth? Qui-Gon turned toward the sound, probing with the pin-light, reaching out with senses that cringed away from the devastation here. There it came again . . . definitely sounded very much like a human moan, pained and low.

A mound of dirt, tailings from some failed mine, obstructed Qui-Gon's path. He rushed around it, his senses focused on what lay on the other side. His pin-light bobbed from side to side, sporadically lighting the way before him. There, at last—he barely stopped in time to prevent stepping on a small, limp hand, flung out from the prone body as if reaching hopelessly for something lost.

Qui-Gon fell to his knees by the boy's side, his breath leaving him in a muffled _whoosh._ "Oh, my poor little one. What happened to you?"

In the small but intense beam of light Qui-Gon could see little, but what he was saw was very clear. Fresh bruises marred Obi-Wan's face, smeared with dust and slack in unconsciousness. Qui-Gon reached out to touch an unharmed portion of that smooth young cheek, and felt yet another spike of worry when he found it flushed and dry and burning with fever.

Obi-Wan flinched from the contact, weakly turning his head away, another moan bubbling up. Qui-Gon gently urged him to turn back, trying to study the still face as the thin eyelids fluttered erratically. The boy was seriously ill, and it shocked him to see such a rapid deterioration since their brief meeting earlier in the day.

The youngster's eyes fluttered open, murky and hazed, fever-bright in the twilight, and Qui-Gon angled the pin-light away to avoid hurting him further. Words stumbled from lips numb and trembling, a shaky hand wandering wearily in the air as if in search of something. "It's—it's wrong. It's all wrong. Isn't it? It's all wrong. It is. It's all wrong."

Qui-Gon grabbed the wandering hand, cradled it gently to his chest. "It's going to be all right now, Obi-Wan. You're going to be all right."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He shook his head in tired negation, not defiantly, just very certain. "No. No. It's wrong. It's been wrong for a long time. It's getting worse."

"Fever dreams, little one. It's the fever talking." Qui-Gon squeezed his hand. "What happened to you? How did you get out here?"

Obi-Wan's forehead wrinkled, and the confusion returned. His voice was suddenly very young and uncertain, lacking the conviction that had strengthened it before. "Can't . . . can't remember. A ship? A man. Don't know." He turned apologetic eyes to Qui-Gon. "Hurts. Sorry. Can't remember. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault. Maybe you'll remember when you're better."

Obi-Wan sighed and closed his eyes, falling limp as the tension drained away.

"Obi-Wan? Do you think you can walk? We need to get you to medical care."

The boy's eyes flew open, and he weakly tried to grip back on Qui-Gon's hand, distress tightening his body again. "Don't take me back there. Please. Wrong. Not the right place."

Qui-Gon blinked, and realized that he hadn't been thinking of taking the boy back to the Enrichment Zone at all. Bandor was closer, anyway, and the only thought in his mind was to get the sick child home to Julune. "I hadn't planned on it. I want to take you home, as a matter of fact. Is that all right?"

Slowly the pale eyelids slid downward once more. "Yes," the boy murmured. "Better. Not quite right, but better. Thank you, Qui-Gon."

"You're welcome, little one." With that settled, the youngster fell back into sleep, or perhaps unconsciousness. Qui-Gon shook his head slightly. "How easily you trust me," he whispered to the lost-and-found boy. "It's a precious gift. I won't treat it lightly."

With Obi-Wan found and his anxiety eased, Qui-Gon's connection to the Force came more easily, though it was strangled and unhappy in this barren place. He clipped the multi-tool back on his belt and gently gathered the boy into his arms, the heat of the slight frame instantly soaking through his tunic. Obi-Wan huddled against him, shaking with chills, whimpering softly as the fever tightened its grip on his weakened body.

"Stars above, child, when was the last time you ate?" Qui-Gon muttered, feeling the boniness of the wrist against his palm, the hip bone jutting into his abdomen. "Or slept, for that matter? Did no one care for you at all?"

As once before today, the Force guided his footsteps, preventing any stumbles as he made his way swiftly back to the speeder. It was hard to abandon the boy to lay alone on the back bench—he wanted to keep him close, keep an eye on him during the journey back—but Qui-Gon forced himself to do so. He wrapped the shivering form in his thick green cloak to ward against the chill of the oncoming night, and pulled the restraints around him as carefully as possible. Obi-Wan tossed his head, muttering, but stilled when Qui-Gon laid a hand on his forehead, whispering soothing phrases.

"Shh, little one. It's all right. You're safe. We'll be home soon."

The trip back seemed just as urgent as the trip out. And, again, it took much too long. Qui-Gon fought to keep his gaze from slipping back to check on the boy every other second—he still needed to keep some of his attention on the ground ahead, patchily lit by the fore-illuminators on the speeder. The boy seemed to lay utterly still, and that worried the man even more than the restless shifting and muttering had. The bright cord in his mind was silent, dimmed, the gray blotches threatening to take over the brilliant light. Was it just the physical illness affecting the boy's connection to the Force, or was something deeper amiss?

"Hold on, Obi-Wan. Hold on," Qui-Gon murmured, wrenching his gaze once more back to the dark terrain before him and the sporadically illuminated city looming larger with the passing of each second. "You aren't alone anymore. Don't give up. We have far too much we need to do."

He blinked, and realized immediately that it was true.

They had a lot to do.


	5. Answers

Julune met him at the door, barely blinking at the sight of the limp child in his arms. "Dearheart, you've always had a penchant for bringing home strays, but this takes the cheese-tart."

"I know, darling. I'm sorry. How ever do you put up with me?"

She chuckled gently, already moving to fetch a sheet from the basket in the corner. "It's a daily struggle. And don't apologize when you don't have to—save it for when you _really_ need it." She laid the sheet over the couch and plumped a cushion to pillow the boy's head, sparing a moment to toss her husband a smile, dark eyes warm and glowing. "You know I love you for your smushy big heart. I take it that this is Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

Qui-Gon nodded as he knelt to lay the boy on the improvised bed. "He's very ill, and he's obviously been through some sort of ordeal. I don't know what happened to him, and he can't remember."

He sat back on his heels, and Julune gasped faintly at her first full sight of the boy. Qui-Gon didn't blame her; his own heart clenched painfully at the view. The flushed, grimy youngster looked much, much worse in full light.

"Oh my. Those bruises—are they from _fingers?"_

Qui-Gon frowned, lightly running his fingertips over the long contusions on the slim jaw. "They certainly look like it, don't they? I'm beginning to think someone kidnapped the poor child from the Enrichment Zone. He certainly couldn't have run that far in this condition."

"Where was he?"

"Just northwest of Bandor. At least a day's walk on foot from the Southern Zone. He didn't do that on his own, unless he stole a vehicle, and somehow that strikes me as utterly impossible. He's an honest lad, brave and forthright."

"You know that, do you?" A hint of humor stole into Julune's rich voice.

Qui-Gon nodded solemnly. "Indeed I do."

Julune sighed, and fell easily into the medical training she had abandoned to pursue scientific research, her shoulders straightening perceptibly, eyes sharpening as she studied the ragged boy. "I'm going to fetch some water. You'd better comm Heim Shilbey."

He watched her walk down the short hall to the refresher, then crossed the common room to the wall-comm, his troubled gaze slipping back to the unconscious boy. Obi-Wan had not stirred since Qui-Gon had first laid him in the speeder. That couldn't be a good sign.

Qui-Gon entered the comm frequency for the Southern Zone, and was answered by the worried young face of Nira, his gossip companion from earlier in the day.

"Mr. Jinn! Do you have news? We haven't found anything, and Master Shilbey is very concerned . . ."

Qui-Gon raised a hand soothingly, his eyes straying back to the couch. Julune knelt there now with a bowl and a cloth, carefully washing the dirt from Obi-Wan's face and hands. "Yes, I have news. I found the boy—he's here right now. He's safe. But he's very ill, and I don't think it would be wise to move him."

"You . . . you took him to your _house?_ But, Mr. Jinn . . ."

"It was closer. Please, Nira, don't worry. My wife is a trained nurse. We'll take care of Obi-Wan. It's no trouble, truly. The child seems to be in need of some attention, and we are glad to give it." She seemed about to protest again, and he continued firmly. "I know you have plenty to take care of in the zone, especially with nightfall. Call off the search and take care of your duties, and you and Heim are welcome to visit us tomorrow."

He strengthened his words with just the lightest touch of the Force, wondering if it even worked over a comm. He hadn't had much call to use this skill, either, and wasn't sure if he was doing it correctly. But Nira blinked slowly, then nodded.

"All right. Thank you, Mr. Jinn. Oh, Master Shilbey is not going to be happy . . ."

She signed off before Qui-Gon could reassure her, and he stared at the comm for a moment, sighing, then walked back over to the couch and stood there looking down at the child he felt such an inexplicable need to protect and care for. Julune had drawn back the cloak and removed the boy's stained and torn tunic, revealing a few more bruises scattered across his rib cage, larger one on his shoulder. It looked like someone had been poking him with something hard, like a blaster muzzle or some sort of prod.

Kidnapping was looking like more and more of a possibility. But who would do such a thing, and why? A lowly Agri-Corps worker would have no value as a hostage, and someone so young could not possibly have enemies. It made no sense.

Qui-Gon knelt gracefully, leaning against the arm of the couch, and touched Obi-Wan's forehead with tentative fingers. He tried to direct the Force to flow through him, to take away the pain and soothe the fever. After a moment, the boy's eyelids began to flutter, and his entire body stiffened, fighting against invisible bonds. "Shhhh," Qui-Gon whispered. "It's all right. Don't be afraid."

Obi-Wan settled back with a tiny, muffled whimper. His face tightened in a mask of pain, deathly pale save the two hectic spots of fever-flush high on his cheeks, and the livid bruises on his jaw and forehead. Julune set aside her cloth and began to stroke his forearm with her slender fingers, moving in slow, gentle lines from elbow to wrist. "You're safe here, Obi-Wan. We're going to help you. Can you wake up, just a little? I need you to take some medicine."

The young eyes squeezed tightly shut in denial, a stubborn set appearing around the cracked lips. Qui-Gon felt a smile tugging at his own mouth—brave and forthright the lad might be, but already Qui-Gon could see the shadow of future defiance. A strong will to match the bright spirit. "It's all right, little one. Come now, open up."

With painful slowness, the boy's eyes opened to mere slits, and he peered up, craning his head to see as his forehead wrinkled in doubt. "Qui-Gon?" It was a dry, cracked whisper, tentative and wary, but with an edge of . . . hope?

"It's me. This is my wife, Julune Graffon-Jinn."

Obi-Wan slowly turned his head to stare at the woman who continued to stroke his forearm, smiling her greeting. "Oh." It was a bare whisper, faintly embarrassed.

Julune's smile broadened. "No shame, sweetie. You're ill and in a fair amount of shock. I'm not offended. How are you feeling?"

The boy shivered suddenly, shrinking back into the cushions. "C-cold."

Qui-Gon frowned. The skin under his fingers was still blazing hot.

Julune pulled the cloak back around him, briskly efficient. "Qui-Gon, find the extra quilt, will you? I'll get the medicine, and a glass. He needs fluids."

Qui-Gon hated to abandon the boy even for the brief moments needed to fetch the wedding quilt his mother had made, tucked into a trunk at the foot of their bed. He returned to the common room, hearing the rattling of dishes in the kitchen as Julune retrieved a plastiform cup. Obi-Wan had struggled into a slumped sitting position on the couch, clutching the cloak at his shoulders, and his blue-gray eyes were filmed with tears.

The man hesitated, then sat next to him, gently spreading the quilt over the shuddering child. "What's wrong, little one?" _Besides the obvious, of course._

Obi-Wan's head lolled against the back of the couch as he turned painfully to look at his rescuer. "I . . . I don't understand. Why are you being so kind to me?"

"Because you need it," Julune said, approaching the couch with the necks of two medicine bottles clasped in one fist, the other holding a tall glass of muja juice. "Because you deserve it. And because we can."

Obi-Wan did not break eye contact with Qui-Gon. "But you don't even know me."

Qui-Gon had allowed Julune's words to wash over him, and he saw as clearly as the boy did that there was more to the question . . . and to the answer. "I know you," he murmured, and carefully laid his hand on the side of the boy's face. "And you know me. Don't you?"

The flesh around the boy's eyes twitched almost imperceptibly, but he did not draw away from Qui-Gon's touch, and his eyes remained steady. They even seemed to lighten, somewhat, clearing from a murky blue-gray to a more natural-looking blue-green. "Yes," he whispered. "I know you."

"Then you know why."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and nodded slightly, wearily, his face shifting beneath Qui-Gon's hand.

Julune cleared her throat, vigorously shaking one of the medicine bottles. "Ready, sweetie? This stuff doesn't taste just the best, but I promise it will be over soon."

The boy nodded again and turned to face her, and Qui-Gon let his hand fall from the flushed cheek to rest on a blanketed shoulder. Julune frowned, reading the directions on the bottle.

"Hmm. This says it shouldn't be taken on an empty stomach. When was the last time you ate?"

More color flooded into Obi-Wan's cheeks, looking just as unhealthy as that already there. "I . . . I don't remember."

The woman gaped at him. "Don't remember? I don't think I've ever met a teenage boy who doesn't gulp everything in sight."

"I just haven't been hungry lately. And I'm still twelve years old . . . won't be thirteen for two weeks yet."

Qui-Gon was surprised by the defensiveness in the boy's tone. Most youngsters were pleased to be mistaken for older than they were. Maybe there was something significant about this thirteenth nameday. "How long is 'lately'?" he asked mildly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you've lost weight even since the last time I saw you, little more than a week ago."

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably, unable to look at either of them. "I just . . . haven't felt like eating. No one seemed to notice until now. Why does it matter?" _Why do you care?_ Qui-Gon could feel the unspoken question, bewildered and hurt. _Why didn't anyone else? I don't matter. I've never mattered to anyone. Why start now_

Julune's frown deepened. "It matters. Here, start with the juice." She held out the glass, jerking it insistently when the boy hesitated to take it. "I'll go get something a little more substantial."

The boy slowly slid his hand through a gap between the cloak and quilt and accepted the glass. His hand shook, and Qui-Gon quickly wrapped his own around the glass as well, holding the smaller fingers in place. Julune spoke to her husband with her large, dark eyes for a moment, then stalked back into the kitchen.

Still Obi-Wan made no move to drink, just holding the glass, shaking softly with fever and confusion. Qui-Gon waited for a moment, then wrapped his free arm around the slight shoulders and gently began to lift the juice to the trembling lips. "We care about you, Obi-Wan," he said. "Do you really need a reason? Can't you just accept it?"

"Doesn't make sense," the boy mumbled. But he drank the juice in tiny, tentative sips, grimacing as nausea gripped him, pausing now and then to rest from the strenuous task of taking nourishment. He seemed too weary to fight any longer—he accepted Qui-Gon's answers because he no longer had the strength to question them.

He obeyed Julune with the same listless acceptance when she returned with thin soup and soft bread, spouting medical wisdom about protein and carbohydrates. Still, he ate barely a third of what she'd brought, earning more prodigious frowns. The same with the medicine, antipyretic and pain-reliever alike—he cooperated sluggishly, leaning more and more heavily against Qui-Gon as exhaustion accumulated in his too-slender body, his expression twisting only momentarily at the less-than-pleasant taste. And then he fell into a heavy, loose-limbed sleep, still burning with fever, still tense with a nervous anxiety that their startlingly novel care could not ease.

Qui-Gon laid the boy gently on the couch, tucking the covers tightly around him, then stood next to his wife. Both Jinns looked down at the child who had suddenly come into their keeping, so burdened and worn. Obi-Wan seemed to shudder under their gaze, turning his face toward the back of the couch, shoulders hunching under the thick quilt.

"I'm sorry, dearheart," Qui-Gon said. And he meant it. "This is turning out to be a lot more than just another one of my projects. I'm sorry you have to deal with it."

Julune turned to face him, her eyes fierce, and reached up to tangle her fingers in his beard, holding his face in both hands. "Darling, we are one. Your burdens are my burdens—your cares are my cares. This poor, suffering child has made a claim on you somehow, through the Force or through something more simple. And as your heart belongs to me, so does the claim. I wouldn't have it any other way." She glanced at the boy, her eyes softening. "Besides, I think he's made a claim on me, too. Didn't take long," she added musingly.

Qui-Gon laughed and swept her into his embrace. "Oh, my precious Julune. We are too much alike."

She grinned mischievously, standing on tiptoe to kiss his lips. "Or just enough."


	6. Questions

It was not an easy night. The medicine was unsuccessful at keeping Obi-Wan in a drugged sleep after an hour or so, and the fever worsened despite the antipyretic, much to Julune's displeasure. She wasn't much surprised, though.

"He's weak," she explained to a worried Qui-Gon, halfway through yet another fever-dream. The boy usually calmed somewhat when someone touched him, so she sat beside the couch, again holding his hand and caressing his forearm in smooth, measured strokes. "He obviously hasn't been taking care of himself, whether because of depression or malaise or plain indifference. The human body can only bear lack of food and sleep for so long. No doubt the exposure exacerbated the problem, but I'm willing to bet that this has been coming for quite some time."

Obi-Wan tossed his head, moaning softly, and muttered something that sounded too much like: "Dead, all dead, should be me."

Qui-Gon frowned. "Will he have enough strength to recover?"

"He'll have to," Julune said grimly. She looked up and offered him a tired smile. "Of course he will. We'll do all we can to help. By morning we'll know better what else we should do."

They took turns sitting with the boy, soothing the almost-incessant hallucinations, forcing medicine and fluids down his protesting throat whenever they could. At times Obi-Wan was aware of their ministrations, and was either achingly grateful or unbearably confused that anyone would care for him. Both reactions made Qui-Gon's chest hurt. No child should think so little of himself.

He listened attentively to the boy's ramblings, hoping to learn some clue as to what had happened to him between the Enrichment Zone and Bandor. But the words were broken and nonsensical most of the time, and those statements that did emerge relatively intact were pleas, self-recriminations, and declarations against the dark. Obi-Wan saw only pain and despair in these specters, and Qui-Gon could not tell if they were past memory, future fear, or merely the present concoctions of an overwrought mind.

The worst bout came some time in the early morning hours, during Qui-Gon's watch, as luck or the Force would have it. Obi-Wan had been sleeping for a time, his breath still coming much too quickly for true slumber, sweat-slicked head rocking occasionally as if to dodge a blow or shake free of unwanted hands. Qui-Gon had been sitting in the broken-down recliner dragged over next to the couch, reading his datapad, or at least pretending to. There was no one to convince, though, Julune having retired for a couple hours of sleep.

Abruptly, Obi-Wan began to struggle, throwing off the covers and writhing half-off the couch, a hoarse cry tearing from him. Qui-Gon dropped the datapad and lunged forward to catch his upper body before it struck the floor. The bare shoulders in his hands jerked at the contact, fever-bright eyes flaring open in shock and terror to stare up at him in a cruel semblance of lucidity.

"Make it stop!" Obi-Wan's tone was not begging, but ordering Qui-Gon to listen and obey. "Make it stop! You are the key!" A small hand shot out to grip the front of Qui-Gon's tunic with more strength than any sick youngster ought to be able to muster. "You can make it right!"

Qui-Gon passed his arm around the too-warm body and tugged it back onto the couch. He could not straighten back up, though, the urgent hand wrapped in his tunic preventing him. He bent over the boy, trying to see clarity past the pain in his eyes. "The key to what?" he asked gently. "What do I need to make right?"

A spasm of frustration crossed the flushed features. The hand in Qui-Gon's tunic was shaking, the unexpected strength all but burnt away. "It's all wrong," he insisted. "I told you before. It's all . . . all wrong. All of it."

"All of what?"

"Everything!"

Obi-Wan's entire body was shaking now. But the strength of his conviction had not waned. If only Qui-Gon understood what he was convicted _about . . ._

"What do you mean by _everything?_ The path of the universe? The motion of the stars? The course of sentient events?" Qui-Gon had not intended to be facetious, but he belated realized that the words sounded sarcastic. Hopefully Obi-Wan was too mired in fever to notice.

Apparently so.

"Yes!" he said. "All of that!" The boy hesitated, a wrinkle of hesitation appearing on his forehead. "Except that bit about the stars. Not much you can do to change that."

Qui-Gon frowned. That last had sounded very lucid indeed. Perhaps he should try a different tack with this.

"What is it that I need to do?" he asked. "How can one man change the fate of the universe?"

Obi-Wan's face abruptly crumpled, and he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, his hand falling away from Qui-Gon's tunic. "I don't know. I don't know! Why can't I see the answers when I see the questions so clearly?"

Qui-Gon caught the trembling hand as it fell away, holding it loosely in his own. Absently, he began to rub his thumb in slow, careful circles over the sweaty palm, his eyes still fixed on the boy's face. "What questions do you speak of?"

Obi-Wan's breath began to calm with excruciating slowness, seeming to ease in rhythm with Qui-Gon's repetitive strokes. "Of . . . of . . . darkness. Death. Chaos. War. Lots of war. And it all looks the same." Sluggishly the blue-gray eyes revealed themselves again, staring at Qui-Gon with weary resignation. "I've been dreaming of it for weeks now. Every time I sleep my eyes are filled with it, with . . ."

He sighed, eyes sliding shut again. His voice took on a dreamy tone, soothed by Qui-Gon's touch, but that only made the horror of his words stand out the more starkly. "How could I eat with the sight of blood and terror in my eyes? Innocents dying. Children. People I knew and loved—Bant, Reeft, Master Yoda. Light being swallowed by blackness, crumbling like . . . like a wooden sculpture rotting as I watched, a snow creature melting in the sun. Everything falling, falling. How could I sleep? I tried to change it. I knew no one would believe me, so I never told anyone about my dreams. But I fought . . . I fought hard to be a Jedi. Perhaps that was what ruined my last chance, in the end . . . I fought too hard."

One eye cracked open to study Qui-Gon with veiled intensity, buried by exhaustion but blindingly, piercingly bright. "It's all wrong. Please, make it right. Make it stop. I can't bear it any longer. It's all, all wrong, and I can do nothing to change it."

"Oh, you poor child." Qui-Gon felt all but incapable of words, even of thoughts. What could he possibly say that could balm these wounds? Such horrible nightmares were bad enough, but that the boy _believed_ them, and thought himself to be the cause . . . "My poor boy. No wonder you've been so weary and sad."

Carefully, he reached his free hand to push the sweaty reddish locks back from the boy's forehead, and let his hand linger there when the murky eyes half-shut, tense expression softening slightly toward contentment. But the boy seemed to struggle against the comfort, his shoulders shifting uneasily, eyelids fluttering upward once again, then closing slowly as if inexorably dragged by the weight of soul-deep fatigue. "It . . . it isn't supposed to be like this," he mumbled. "You're supposed to be . . . supposed to be . . ."

"What, Obi-Wan?"

"My . . ." The boy suddenly fought into an upright position, throwing off Qui-Gon's hands. His body was rigid in the grip of yet another vision, eyes wide and staring into the distance, bruised chest heaving for air and bursting out in a yell. "No! My fault! Don't leave me alone! Please, Master!"

He fell back, the last of that unexpected strength finally drained away. "No, no, no, no, no . . ." It was a hushed murmur, desperate and futile. Qui-Gon caught him as he fell, wrapping his arms around the shuddering body from behind, finding himself sitting on the couch with no memory of deciding to move.

Obi-Wan leaned into him, limbs quivering, head rolling limply against his broad shoulder. Still the boy continued his quiet litany of negation, steady and relentless, an unthinking response to a great shock.

Qui-Gon wrapped his palm around the burning forehead. "What did you see?"

The chorus of "no, no, no" trailed off into silence. After a moment, Obi-Wan responded, his voice utterly calm. "A face, red and black. A red wall. A red 'saber blade. A cutting slash. Death. I can't get there in time. I can't stop it. I can't stop any of it. I am a leaf in a river. You are a rock. I can't change the current. You can, maybe, maybe. But I don't know how. I can't stop it. The river passes over the edge, and everything is falling, falling, falling."

Qui-Gon shivered. The length of the boy's body pressed against his emanated heat like a bank of red-glowing coals. Part of him wanted to push away, escape that burning, the calm terrible words. But the larger part of him pulled the weakened boy closer, longing to chase away the shadows by sheer will and the strength of his presence.

"Shhh," he whispered, reaching forward to capture the smaller hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over tense palms in the calm, slow circles that had brought a measure of peace before. "Hush now, Obi-Wan. Rest. Listen to my voice. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no death, there is the Force."

He repeated the recitation several times, and eventually felt and heard Obi-Wan murmuring along with the cadence, his voice sluggish and hesitant, descending toward sleep again. But he was not saying quite the words Qui-Gon did. The boy was repeating, "There is no death, there is the Force. There is no death, there is the force." Over and over he said it, trying to convince himself.

Gradually Obi-Wan's voice faded and died away, and soon after that Qui-Gon stopped reciting the litany, as well. He continued his calming touch on the clammy hands, feeling the boy's slow slide into true, restful sleep, the stillness of the depleted body and mind. The youngster didn't feel quite as hot against him. Perhaps the fever had finally broken.

"That's my boy," Qui-Gon murmured, his breath passing over the sweat-spiked hair. "Be at peace. Rest and heal. You are safe here, always and ever. Everything is wrong, you say, the path has been changed badly, but it needn't remain so. We will find a way to make it right. We will make a new path. All things are possible with the Force."

He felt the boy's nod, slow but certain. A smile tugged at his lips, even as his heart continued to ache. The child trusted him. For no obvious reason, completely and absolutely, Obi-Wan Kenobi trusted Qui-Gon Jinn, a man he had never spoken to before half a day ago.

"Sleep, little one. I will guard your dreams."

Evidently Obi-Wan believed that statement, too, for soon Qui-Gon heard the even breathing, felt the limp repose of the slight frame in his arms. Finally, the boy had found a deep, peaceful sleep, free of dreams—fever and otherwise. It was a welcome relief.

Qui-Gon felt his own eyelids drooping, his rangy frame worn by hours of watching, compassionate heart and practical mind similarly exhausted. But somehow, he could not join his temporary ward in the blissful darkness of sleep.

None of the questions had been answered, and more had been raised. Qui-Gon could feel the boy's immense strength in the Force, and he also felt the difference from his own. Obi-Wan was powerfully connected to the Unifying Force. And that aspect of the all-encompassing energy was known for prophecy.

Were they dreams, or visions, that haunted this child so terribly? Qui-Gon hoped for the former and feared the latter. For if it were a true future being revealed in these ghosts of the mind, Qui-Gon was afraid that he had made a promise he would not be able to keep. And it would break his heart to fail in any promise made to this boy.

The most important question still lingered in his mind, taunting him with its truth, its blunt directness.

How could one man change the fate of the universe?


	7. Memories and Revelations

"Qui-Gon, dearheart. It's time to wake up."

Qui-Gon struggled to open his eyes, wondering what had happened. Generally it was he who woke his wife with that sweetly uttered phrase, not the other way around. Had he passed a bad night for some reason?

Suddenly he became aware of the warm body reclining against him, his awkward position jammed in a corner of the couch with one leg dangling off it and the other bent between himself and someone much smaller. At last his recalcitrant eyelids chose to open, and he looked down at a tangled mop of reddish-sandy hair leaning against his chest, slender arms held in the circle of his own, their hands still clasped. Memory finally decided to return, before he could panic.

Qui-Gon looked up, blinking in the early sunlight that streamed in the bay window, cream and citrus yellow. "Julune?"

She smiled wearily, kneeling beside the couch with her dark head bent near his. "I honestly did come out for my turn, but you were both sleeping so nicely that I didn't want to disturb you." Her long fingers passed over Obi-Wan's forehead, brushing back hair now dry, though stiff with the remnants of sweat. "The fever has broken. He'll get better now."

"Oh. Good." Qui-Gon blinked down at the boy in his arms, who hadn't stirred at all. "I should get out from under him before he wakes. I don't think he's used to being touched, though he obviously appreciates it—he'll be embarrassed."

"Aw, c'mon." Julune pouted, very prettily in his opinion. "I want to see his face when he realizes that you held him all night long, like a sweet little baby."

Qui-Gon blushed. "Darling . . . he's a young man. He'll be embarrassed."

She grinned at him suddenly, tilting her head to one side. "Why, my dearest hubby—I do believe that _you're_ embarrassed!"

"Not at all, not at all," he hastened to assure her. He shifted his shoulders a bit, but didn't move otherwise, hoping to keep the boy from waking. "He needed it, and I don't regret it at all. I'm only thinking of Obi-Wan's feelings. He won't want to be seen as a baby, no matter how sweet."

"Well, I think it's precious." That edge of stubbornness had seeped into Julune's voice again. Indeed, they were far too much alike.

"Obi-Wan won't."

Julune opened her mouth to argue again, the familiar glint of battle in her dark eyes. Then abruptly her expression transformed to one of cheerful welcome, her gaze shifting away from Qui-Gon's face and down. "Good morning, Obi-Wan! How are you feeling?"

Qui-Gon felt the head on his chest tilting upward, and looked down to meet the boy's gaze, blue and serene. For a moment they just looked at each other, and then Obi-Wan turned back to face Julune, settling his head more firmly against Qui-Gon's shoulder.

"I'm very tired and sore, and my head hurts."

The boy's voice was raspy and faint, but completely calm. Julune smiled softly and touched his temple, running her fingers down the plane of his cheek. "Only to be expected. You had a rough night. Fever and lack of sleep will make you tired and stiff, and the headache . . . probably dehydration. I'll get you something to drink."

Obi-Wan gulped, eyes widening. "Please, no more muja juice."

She chuckled gently. "Water, then."

Julune left, and Qui-Gon looked down again at their tangled hands, one pair small and pale and thin, the other broad and brown and blunt. He felt no need to move, though his body was knotted and uncomfortable, contorted to cushion a pain-wracked child. Obi-Wan, also, seemed content to remain as he was, his body still utterly limp and relaxed, but that could have been because he was too tired to care about his surroundings. Well, if Obi-Wan didn't want to move, Qui-Gon would not object.

Obi-Wan made a soft sound halfway between a yawn and a sigh. "What happened last night?" he asked sleepily. "I can't really remember."

Qui-Gon frowned lightly. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Mmm . . . I was . . . I was finishing up fertilization of Grain Field 4, just about to head in. It was almost evening, but I was very hot and dizzy . . . having trouble walking. I put away the spreader in the garage. That's the last thing I remember clearly. The rest is images, feelings . . . impressions, really."

The boy had begun to tremble. Qui-Gon gently released the slender hands and slid his arms up to fold the too-thin body into a careful embrace. Julune had returned sometime during the short narration with a glass of water and more medicine, and had waited patiently for the boy to finish. Now she helped him drink it, letting him pause between sips but insisting that he down it all.

Exhausted by that small effort, Obi-Wan turned his head back to rest in the cleft between Qui-Gon's shoulder and neck, his temple leaning on the bearded jaw. Qui-Gon pressed him a little closer, touched by the gesture of childlike trust.

"Obi-Wan? What are these impressions you remember?"

The boy was silent for so long that Qui-Gon thought he would not answer at all. He could feel the tension flowing back into the slight frame, and was sorry he'd asked. But he needed to know, if only to be able to protect the youngster. Both adults said nothing, giving their young charge as much time as he needed.

"I remember . . . fear. I was trapped. Someone was talking to me, holding my face in his hand to make me listen, but I can't remember the words. The world was burning. I . . . I fell? I rolled on the ground, in the dirt and rocks. I dreamed, the same dreams as always, but worse because I was so tired and hot. Then . . . you came." He leaned his head more heavily against Qui-Gon's. "The dreams went away for a while. They came back, but you were always there, helping me." He looked curiously at the woman who still sat by the couch, quietly listening. "Is . . . is your name . . . Julune?"

She smiled. "That's right. I'm pleased to meet you, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"Pleased," he echoed, and yawned, jaw cracking. "Sorry. Still tired."

"I know. You'll need a lot of sleep in the next few days. Just relax and let us take care of you."

"You're ver' kind," Obi-Wan slurred, eyelids drooping. "Can't thank you 'nough."

"Don't bother," Qui-Gon murmured. "If you just get well and happy, that's all the thanks we need."

"All righ' . . ."

Qui-Gon turned his head very carefully to look at the young profile, sweetly peaceful now in healing slumber. "I guess he wasn't embarrassed after all."

"I think he was too tired to care," Julune said. "Next time he wakes he'll be a little stronger, and more aware of his surroundings. And he'll probably want to use the refresher." She wrinkled her nose. This was one reason she'd given up nursing, Qui-Gon remembered.

"Well, I'd like to use it now," Qui-Gon said. "Will you help me get out from under him? I wouldn't mind so much, as he's obviously quite comfortable, but I can't feel my leg . . . ."

She laughed, very softly. "Have I told you recently that I love your smushy big heart? I'll help you. Gently now."

They eased the boy down on the couch and covered him warmly, each pausing to run a hand through the stiffly dried mop of reddish hair. Then they departed, the one to clean up, the other to work.

X

Qui-Gon was not used to having a youngster in the house, in his responsibility. It made him a little nervous. Sure, he had taken care of stray and injured creatures for a day or two, but this was . . . different. Very different.

The next time Obi-Wan woke he was more like himself, which meant that the painful confusion and gratitude was back, along with a mixture of embarrassment. Apparently he remembered now how Qui-Gon had calmed him the night before, though he did not mention it. Julune was also right in another way—he wanted to use the refresher.

Obi-Wan let Qui-Gon hold his arm on the short walk down the hall, but that was all the help he would accept, though his legs were trembling beneath him and the man was always ready to catch him as soon as he fell, certain that it would happen any moment now. Qui-Gon wanted to wait by the door until he came out, listening for any sounds of distress within the little room. But he made himself go and strip the sweaty linens from the couch and start a load of laundry, then searched out one of his smaller tunics for the boy to wear, always keeping his senses alert for any noise from his young guest.

Qui-Gon met the child when he finally exited the 'fresher, much exhausted by the task but looking more himself, face clean and clear despite the ugly bruises and dark curves under his eyes, reddish hair again bright and sticking up in spikes. He shyly accepted the tunic Qui-Gon held out for him, but had trouble lifting it over his head, his arms shaking, his face tightening in frustration. Finally Qui-Gon simply reached over and helped him into it, without saying a word or giving Obi-Wan the chance to refuse his help. The tunic fit the boy more like a gown than a tunic, seeming to accent the fact that the boy properly belonged in a med center. Too bad Bandor didn't have any worth the name.

Obi-Wan kept his head down, unable to look Qui-Gon in the eye. "Thank you," he whispered.

"There's no shame in it," Qui-Gon said gently. "I'm happy to be of assistance."

"I know. I can never thank you enough. I don't understand why you're being so kind to me, but it truly does mean more than I can say. I've been . . ."

The boy fell silent. Qui-Gon waited patiently, though he had an idea of what his temporary ward wanted to say.

"Alone," Obi-Wan finished quietly. His gaze flashed up for a brief, lovely moment to look the man squarely in the eye with all the courage and inner strength Qui-Gon had known all along was there. "For such a very long time, I've been alone. And now, I feel—feel in you, in your wife, in this place . . ." He gestured from side to side with slender fingers, trying to find the words. "I feel . . . home. I know this is not really my home, but thank you. Thank you for letting me feel safe. Safe and . . . and . . ." His voice dropped to a frail whisper. "And welcomed—wanted. I don't understand it, but I'm very grateful."

Qui-Gon yearned to grab the youngster in a firm embrace, to assure him that this truly was his home and he would always be wanted here. But he didn't want to scare him off, and he had no right to say such things. Instead he engulfed the thin shoulder in his wide palm, squeezing warmly. "You're welcome." He hesitated, looking away for a moment, then gave the boy a gentle tug. "Come to the kitchen and have some breakfast. There's something I need to tell you."

"Breakfast" was a bowl of bland-looking porridge that Julune had said was best for the recovering boy. Qui-Gon grimaced just looking at it, and Obi-Wan gulped to quell his nausea at the sight of so much food, shooting his caretaker a pleading look.

"Please, Qui-Gon, I can't . . ."

"You can," Qui-Gon said, carefully pressing the boy into a chair. "There's sweetener and milk right there. Add as much as you like. You need food to regain your strength. You don't want another fever, do you?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. He slowly picked up the spoon and poked it at the porridge, then lifted a spoonful and watched it drip off in thick white clumps. His hand shook slightly, but Qui-Gon knew that he would never want to be helped with this simplest of tasks, so he said nothing. Obi-Wan lowered the utensil back into the bowl and just looked at Qui-Gon, who now sat across from him with his hands folded on the table. "What . . . what did you want to tell me?"

Qui-Gon was not to be distracted. He picked up the syrup pitcher and poured a generous dollop into Obi-Wan's bowl. "Stir. You eat, and I'll talk." He didn't specifically say that this was conditional, but Obi-Wan took the hint.

The boy exhaled slowly and stirred. He lifted the spoon to his mouth to taste the stuff, revealing a flicker of pink tongue, then picked up the syrup pitcher and added more. He tasted again, then added yet more, and looked expectantly across the table. Qui-Gon had watched this process with amusement, but now nodded and began, making sure that Obi-Wan ate while he talked.

"Yesterday you said that you felt somebody touch you, and you followed the feeling back and found me. I didn't understand what had happened then, but I think I do now. Have you ever heard of two people being connected through the Force?"

Obi-Wan nodded. He ate more willingly now, though slowly, his elbow on the table and his head propped on the heel of his hand. "Masters and Padawans often have bonds. Sometimes others, too. I've never had anything like that. So you know about the Force, then?" Suddenly he looked up, spoon-hand drooping, blue-green eyes wide and incredulous. "You . . . you're Force-sensitive, aren't you? That little stream of light in my mind—it's you." He sat back in the chair. The spoon clattered to the table. "It's you. Qui-Gon Jinn. The Force bound us together. It's you."

Suddenly, the man had no words. His tongue felt stiff and dry in his mouth, the syllables clogging at the back of his throat. Until this very moment, he had not considered the implications of this staggering fact. They dizzied him.

Obi-Wan's voice faltered. "Isn't it? It—it is, isn't it?"

Qui-Gon could only nod.

For a long time they just stared at each other, neither able to speak.


	8. Tea with the Agri-Corps

Qui-Gon sensed the visitors coming before they reached the door and went out to meet them, preventing a ringing of the chime. Obi-Wan had been exhausted after breakfast, but had been unable to settle down for the necessary nap for some time, his thoughts too chaotic and confused. Qui-Gon had not been able to help calm him at all, his own mind similarly disquieted. Finally the boy had found rest, after much tossing and turning and twitching, and Qui-Gon wanted nothing to disturb him.

It was Heim Shilbey and Nira. They started a bit at his sudden appearance at the door, his finger to his lips. For a moment the three just looked at each other. Then Qui-Gon motioned for them to come inside.

"Obi-Wan is asleep," he murmured. "Follow me to the kitchen. We'll talk there."

They treaded softly through the common room. Qui-Gon noticed the cautious glances his visitors turned toward the sleeping boy, their eyes full of relief and concern, and some of the dark doubts he had been harboring began to ease. But he still had many questions.

The two Agri-Corps workers sat at the small table, a bit cramped in the limited space. Qui-Gon moved quietly about the kitchen, playing host. "Tea? Sugar tarts? I believe we have some poli fruit and sweetberries, too."

Shilbey nodded slowly. "That would be a kindness. Thank you, Mr. Jinn."

"It's Qui-Gon. Please. We should have been on a first-name basis since our first meeting, and I see no need to change my mind on that." At least not yet. It all depended on what sort of answers the Agri-Corps supervisor would give him.

Again the slow nod. "Very well, Qui-Gon. I appreciate your generosity."

Before long they sat at the table looking at each other, an untouched plate of tarts and fruit between them. Qui-Gon wrapped his hands around the warm porcelain of his cup and inhaled deeply of rich herbal fumes. He liked his tea brewed strong and dark. His visitors could like it or not as they chose—he was only making one pot.

Nira glanced between the two men nervously as silence stretched and they continued staring at each other. "So . . . how is young Kenobi, then?" she asked. "You said he was ill?"

Qui-Gon sat back slightly in his chair. "He had a bad fever last night. It has broken, but he's still very weak. He'll need time to recover. And I must say that I am disturbed by the causes behind his illness."

"Oh, _you're_ disturbed?" Shilbey's eyes narrowed. "What right do you—"

"What causes do you speak of?" Nira interrupted, leaning forward to snag a tart and popping it quickly into her mouth. "Mmmm. These are exquisite. Who's the chef?"

Qui-Gon frowned. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. Tea-drinking could be soothing, he'd read somewhere. "The bakery down the street. I'm speaking of Obi-Wan's utter exhaustion and that he apparently hasn't eaten at all since he came to Bandomeer, and no one in the Agri-Corps noticed. I'm speaking of the bruises all over his face and upper body, some of which have the distinctive shape of human fingers.. I'm speaking of the fact that he somehow managed to get a full day's walk away from the Enrichment Zone in a condition that seemed more conducive to crawling than walking. _These_ little quirks are what I find disturbing. Don't tell me that they're normal in new Agri-Corps workers?"

Nira froze in mid-chew, and Heim Shilbey bristled for a moment, straightening his shoulders as if bracing himself for a fight. Then he deflated with a long sigh, like a smashball with a sudden leak, his head sinking toward his still-full teacup. "No. And yes."

Qui-Gon took another deliberate sip. "What do you mean?"

Heim scrubbed a hand over his face and lifted his head to look the other man in eye. "I mean that some of that is normal, yes. Youngsters who come to us from the Jedi Temple are often very homesick and depressed for the first few weeks. We knew that this boy was taking it particularly hard, that he was having trouble sleeping and had lost his interest in just about everything, including meals."

"But he was always very dutiful and obedient," Nira supplied. "I thought it was starting to pass. Never expected him to run away like this. It must have been worse than we thought."

Her superior shook his head thoughtfully. "No, something else must have happened. You said he has bruises? And he was a full day's walk from the zone?"

Qui-Gon nodded. Some of the tension that had been building in his chest since these two first arrived at his home was slowly beginning to uncoil. "I don't think he ran away. He couldn't have made it that far on his own. Were any of your vehicles missing last night?"

"No. Which means . . . an outsider must have taken him away."

"Forcibly, judging by his bruises. Unless someone within the Agri-Corps was bullying him."

"Unlikely." Heim's shoulders straightened again, his eyes steady and forthright. He lifted the teacup and sniffed it suspiciously, then set it back down. "We would have known. Anger is often an issue with new recruits—we work very hard to overcome that on an individual basis, and no one currently on staff is struggling with violence or aggressive tendencies. And certainly no one would dare to harm a young boy. We would have crushed such intolerable activities immediately, and the perpetrator would probably be sent away." He risked a small sip of the tea, his lips pursing tightly for moment, then drank more deeply. "I don't understand. Didn't you ask the boy what happened? He would be able to answer your questions better than I."

"He doesn't remember. At that point I think he was nearly delirious from fever." Qui-Gon took another long, slow sip. One more question, and he might be satisfied that the Agri-Corps hadn't been criminally negligent—just unobservant. But they'd better have a very good answer. "That's another thing that bothers me. Obi-Wan said that the last thing he remembers clearly was working, spreading fertilizer on Grain Field 4. This while he was so ill, so 'hot and dizzy,' as he put it, that he was having trouble walking. Do you usually send your recruits out to work in the fields when they're feeling poorly?"

The young woman shook her head, eyes wide with horror. "Of course not! What kind of monsters do you think we are? We had no idea the boy was feeling so badly—he never said. He would have been put to bed at once if he had mentioned such symptoms to anyone."

"But we did know that he was isolating himself." Heim sighed and covered his eyes with one hand. "We should have noticed—should have kept a closer eye on him. We try to put our new recruits to work at once, it's true, even when they're homesick and depressed. We want them to find something of interest in the Agri-Corps, something to give them purpose, and letting them mope and brood accomplishes nothing. But we should have realized that it wasn't working in this case."

Heim pushed his hand up his sun-browned forehead, revealing his eyes, and incidentally forcing his white-streaked hair up in a messy-looking puff. It did much to make him look human in Qui-Gon's eyes, with the same inherent foibles and idiosyncrasies and flaws as any other man. "We have fallen down on the job, and the boy suffered for our failure. It is inexcusable, and I don't blame you for distrusting us. Your interest in the youngster—your defense of him—speaks highly of your character. I apologize for thinking badly of you earlier."

Qui-Gon nodded gravely, accepting the apology. "I ask your forgiveness, as well. You must understand how it appeared to me. I assumed that it was neglect and lack of care that led to Obi-Wan's condition, but I see now that you meant him well. And I understand why you would be suspicious of my motives in taking a young stranger into my home. Please understand that everything I've done has only been out of concern for the child's welfare. I've grown very fond of him, as has my wife."

"You have a large heart, Mr. Jinn . . . Qui-Gon."

The two men smiled at each other, a genuine expression of companionship and shared understanding. Nira's smile was more of the species of relief, though. She ate another tart, much more slowly than the first.

Qui-Gon sighed, looking sadly at the dregs in his cup. Perhaps he should have brewed another pot, after all. "There's still the question of how Obi-Wan got so far out in the first place. I suspect kidnapping, but I can't imagine a motive."

Heim frowned thoughtfully, sucking down another long draught of his tea. "We'll probably never know."

"But if it was kidnappers, young Kenobi managed to escape them," Nira put in. "And that while he was feeling far from his best. They don't sound very dangerous to me."

Qui-Gon's brow wrinkled, but Heim nodded slowly. "Or at least, such a gross failure should put them off trying again. I don't sense any danger from the Force." Still, turmoil remained in his expression, the look of a man perturbed by memory or instinct, but without the proof to lend credence to his fears.

Qui-Gon opened his mouth, then shut it. He did feel a warning, but it was faint and unclear, as much had been since the day he first met this beleaguered child. It might not have to do with the kidnappers at all. And he wasn't sure that he should reveal his Force-sensitivity just yet, though it was possible that he was more attuned—and, perhaps, more powerful—than these former Jedi initiates.

There were many more questions, including what it meant when two strangers became bonded, what should be done about it. He also wanted to know what he could do to strengthen the connection, which was still dimmed and silent, though the dark blotches were beginning to dissipate. But he doubted that Heim knew the answers. And again, the Force told him to wait.

Heim finished his tea and set the cup down with a long exhale, both satisfied and saddened. "In any case, I can see that we need to make some changes back at the zone. And not only in our security measures." He offered Qui-Gon a small smile. "I guess there's only one thing left to discuss."

Qui-Gon just looked at him, some of the wariness returning. "Whether you should take Obi-Wan back to the zone now, or let him stay here for his recovery."

"I was going to say _when_ we should take the boy back, but that works, yes."

Nira frowned. "Why don't we ask the boy? He's had a lot of decisions taken out of his hands recently—maybe he'd like to make this one for himself."

"Why do you think that?" Heim asked.

"Because he's been standing in the doorway for quite some time now, and he doesn't look particularly happy."

Qui-Gon turned sharply toward the door between the kitchen and the common room, taking in the sight of the weary, pale-faced youngster, his pinched expression and creased forehead. The man started to get up to go to him, but made himself sit still, only rocking forward in his chair a little. Obi-Wan was standing on his own two feet, though leaning heavily against the door jamb, and Qui-Gon knew that he wanted to stay there.

Instead he simply gestured for the boy to join them. "Come have some fruit. There's plenty."

Fortunately, it took only two steps to cross the small space, and Obi-Wan plopped down in the last chair at the tiny table. Nira immediately offered him her untouched tea, but Qui-Gon suspected that it would remain un-drunk. A shame. Obi-Wan gingerly accepted a slice of poli and took a small bite, then set it down next to his cooling teacup.

Heim looked at his young recruit for a moment, then seemed to come to some sort of decision. "Do you have any thoughts, Kenobi?" he asked gently.

The boy drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment, then released it. "I'd like to stay here, sir." He looked quickly to Qui-Gon. "If, if that's all right . . ."

"You are always welcome here, Obi-Wan. Julune and I would be glad to have you for as long as you can stay."

"I—I'd like that." Obi-Wan looked cautiously at his supervisor.

Heim pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded. "It looks like you need a break. When you're feeling better, we'll try again, all right? You should at least give the Agri-Corps a chance. And if you're truly unhappy with us, there are always other options."

"Th-thank you, sir. I'll do my best."

Qui-Gon was not entirely satisfied. But he knew that this was the best he could expect, at least for now. He said nothing, simply nodded in approval of this plan. Obi-Wan would need at least a week to recover fully, considering how weak and run-down he was. A lot could happen in that time.


	9. More Than a Guest

The rest of the visit passed in meaningless chit-chat, pursued by more cups of tea, fruit and tarts. Obi-Wan ate very little, and left the tea alone after one cautious sip. Qui-Gon noticed this, and wordlessly fetched a glass of water and set it near the boy's hand, looking firmly into his eyes until the youngster sighed and nodded. He also removed a sugar-tart from the lad's hand and replaced it with a cluster of sweetberries. Dehydration and malnourishment were twin enemies that he was determined to vanquish as quickly as possible. Better if Obi-Wan chose to be his ally in this, but he would fight alone if he had to.

But Nira's observation proved itself true; Obi-Wan was very dutiful and obedient, even in these small matters. More—he was eager to please. Too eager. When Qui-Gon stood to walk their visitors to the door, Obi-Wan clambered to his wobbly feet as well, offering to clean up.

Qui-Gon looked at the boy steadily for a moment, but he could see the pleading in his eyes. _Let me do this little thing. Let me prove that I am not completely useless._ The man nodded reluctantly, and refrained from asking the boy to be careful. It was just a few dishes. Surely he couldn't hurt himself doing that, even as weak as he was.

Once outside, Heim Shilbey headed down to the Agri-Corps speeder, parked hastily and crookedly along the street. Nira lingered for a moment by the door, fidgeting slightly with her hands.

"Mr. Jinn . . ." she began hesitantly.

He tried to look as open and unthreatening as possible. "Yes, Nira? He's waiting for you."

She nodded jerkily. "Yeah. I just wanted you to know . . . Master Shilbey isn't so bad. He takes his job really seriously, and maybe he isn't the softest pitten in the galaxy, but he means well. He hates to see one of his kids get hurt, and he truly believes that the Agri-Corps is the best place to be. A few years ago a recruit was seduced away . . . not by the dark side, but by a man. Two years later Heim found her living alone in a ghetto, trying desperately to feed herself and her two little children. Her . . . _husband,"_ Nira rolled her eyes most expressively, "had abandoned her.

"Heim set her up with a job and a home on Corellia, paid out of his own pocketbook to make sure she would be all right, or as all right as she could be. Ever since then he's taken great care to make sure that we feel at home and happy in the Agri-Corps. I know he didn't mean to ignore little Kenobi's problems—he was frantic when the boy went missing, and very worried to learn that he wasn't coming back immediately. So please don't think badly of him . . . he never meant any harm, far from it."

All of this said was said very quickly and quietly, and Qui-Gon listened intently. At last he smiled at the worried girl, and gently patted her shoulder. "You are a good peacemaker, Nira. I don't think badly of Heim Shilbey, nor of the Agri-Corps. I think Obi-Wan was meant to come here, and Julune and I were meant to help him. All is well. I am grateful for your good wishes."

Nira bobbed a relieved little nod and hurried down to the speeder, where Qui-Gon had no doubt she was saying something similar to her supervisor. Perhaps she was telling him about how Qui-Gon had subtly taken care of Obi-Wan, even while keeping up the conversation and being a gracious host—he had noticed her dark eyes taking in every movement, every gesture, every nuance of expression and body language.

Indeed, she was a good peacemaker. He didn't understand why no one at the Temple had seen that, and taken her as a Padawan while there was still time. She would have been a marvelous negotiator, with training and experience. A shame to waste such talent. But it was also clear that she loved her current mission, loved the green growing things under her care.

Qui-Gon heaved a silent sigh and went inside to make sure that Obi-Wan was managing the kitchen all right.

X

Julune came home quietly, poking her head in to look around a bit before entering and closing the door softly behind her. Qui-Gon grinned at this—usually his wife hurtled in the door with a joyous shout, alerting her husband to her arrival so he would be prepared if she chose to jump into his arms. Already they were making small, unconscious changes to accommodate their young guest, and it seemed perfectly natural to do so.

Her eyes caught Qui-Gon sitting on the couch with a datapad in his lap, Obi-Wan curled up against him fast asleep. She tiptoed across the common room and sat on Qui-Gon's other side, though she peered around his broad frame to peek at the sleeping boy for a moment. The couch was just big enough to hold the three of them in comfort—give Julune a few weeks to grow and it might not anymore. But by then they would be home on Thyferra, Qui-Gon hoped.

 _And where will Obi-Wan be then?_ he wondered suddenly, a slight crease appearing between his eyebrows. The Jinns were only scheduled to stop on Bandomeer for another two weeks. What would become of this lonely child when they had to leave him behind?

"How was Obi-Wan today?" Julune murmured close to his ear. "Did he eat anything?"

"He finished about half the porridge at breakfast, had two slices of poli and five sweetberries in the morning, managed a slice of bread with velinut butter for midday . . . um, I think he ate another slice of poli this afternoon . . . and that brings us up to date."

Julune sighed. "Not much. He'll need to eat lots of small meals for a time to get his body used to nourishment again, but I think he could handle a little more if he tried."

"He _is_ trying though. And look at this." Qui-Gon tipped his head toward the small reddish-sandy head that rested on his shoulder. "He let me read to him for a while, and quite calmly fell asleep on me. I'd say that's progress, compared to how he was last night."

Julune smiled tenderly. "Yes. He likes you." She tipped her chin up to look into his face, her eyes soft and warm. "Though I don't see how anyone could _help_ liking you, my sweet big papa."

He lowered his head to rub his nose against hers, then pressed their foreheads together. "You see only the good in people."

"Only when there's plenty of good to see."

Qui-Gon was tempted to continue this gooey dialogue, and perhaps take it a little further, but the weight on his other arm prevented him from wrapping it around his wife. He pulled back with a small, regretful sigh. Maybe later. "What were we talking about, again?"

Julune brought her eyes back into focus, not without difficulty. "Mmm, I think it was Obi-Wan. Did he do anything besides eat and sleep? Though those two activities are best for him, come to think of it."

"Yes, he did." Qui-Gon felt the small frown return. "After we had tea with the Agri-Corps, he wanted to clean up the kitchen. I let him—it was only a few dishes, and I knew that he wanted to make himself useful even if in only the smallest ways. But then he wanted to clean up after midday, too, and fold the laundry, and any number of other little household tasks. I don't know, Julune—it's difficult. I want him to feel at home here, to feel that he isn't only a burden on our generosity. But there's no way we can let him turn himself into a domestic servant out of pure gratitude. And I really don't think he ought even to be walking much at this point."

"Well, it sounds like you're balancing it well so far. After all, most children do have chores. Perhaps if we let him do little things here and there that won't do him any harm, he'll feel that he is more than a guest, and start to shed some of this bewilderment. It just breaks my heart to see such confusion in the poor child whenever we show him the smallest scraps of kindness. Though, as you said, it mustn't interfere with his recovery. You had him sit down to fold the laundry, didn't you?"

"But is he?" Qui-Gon asked, very softly. His mind had caught on one of her casually-voiced phrases, barely registering the rest. "Is he more than a guest?"

"Yes." Julune looked him squarely in the eye. "He is more than a guest, my heart. We knew that from the beginning. Now we just need to prove it to the boy."

He kissed her hair, pressing her close. "That's my Julune. I should have known you would see it that way. Yes, I had him sit on the couch to fold the laundry. And I didn't let him clean up after midday, just after tea."

"Oh, that. Did you say something about the Agri-Corps? They didn't come to take him back, did they? I hope you told them no, and perhaps a few more things."

Qui-Gon almost laughed at the fierce, protective glint in her eyes. His chest vibrated with silent chuckles, but he kept his voice quiet, mindful of the youngster who still slept against his opposite shoulder. "Yes, they came. And they weren't quite as horrible as we assumed." He gazed away thoughtfully. "Though come to think of it, they never did call Obi-Wan by his name. It was always 'young Kenobi' or 'the boy.'"

"Typical," she muttered. "Blasted Jedi rules, always have to be so calm and cool and detached from everything . . ." She stared away for a moment, then carefully unfolded herself from the couch, slipping out of his grasp. "I'll start supper. You stay here and let our Obi-Wan sleep awhile longer."

He watched her walk away into the kitchen, still grumbling under her breath, then looked down at the boy who slept so soundly and easily against him. _Our Obi-Wan._ He mouthed the phrase silently, and found that he liked it. Qui-Gon glanced at the datapad in his hand, then marked his place and shut it off. His casual wish of more than a week ago was coming true. Reading together was becoming a part of the evening routine.

Obi-Wan stirred slightly against his shoulder, and Qui-Gon stilled, looking down at the lad. "S'm'n's comin'," the boy mumbled.

"What did you say, little one?"

The pale eyelids slowly opened, half-aware blue-green gaze aimed away, out the bay window and down the street. "Something's coming," Obi-Wan repeated more clearly, though his voice was still muffled with the remnants of sleep. "No, not something. Someone."

"Who?"

"Someone important." Obi-Wan hid a yawn behind a thin hand, then lifted his head from Qui-Gon's shoulder and sat back against the couch. "You should prob'ly get the door."

Qui-Gon stared at the boy in blank confusion, and Obi-Wan gestured impatiently at the door, yawning enormously. "He—" At last the yawn ended, and Obi-Wan blinked sleepily up at his tall caretaker. "—e's coming."

Qui-Gon looked at the door, and then he felt it too. He got to his feet and crossed the room, opening the door just as the chime began to ring. Scant seconds of foreknowledge hadn't given him much time to prepare, but he instantly recognized the elegant figure and white, well-trimmed beard, the intense eyes beneath their bushy black awnings. "Knight Dooku! So good to see you again."

The new visitor nodded calmly. "Actually, it's Master Dooku, now. How have you been, Qui-Gon? Anything new happening?"


	10. Kindred Spirits . . . Or Not

Qui-Gon let out a gasping little chuckle as he stepped aside to let Master Dooku into his home. _Anything new happening?_ What a question! It almost frightened him to think how much his life had changed in the last few days, never mind the ten years or so since he'd last seen his Jedi friend.

"Why, yes, actually, quite a lot has been happening," he said, and was pleased with how steady his voice was. "Did you know I'd gotten married?"

Dooku nodded deeply, once, as he crossed the threshold into the small living quarters. "I remember receiving an invitation some years back, yes." He frowned slightly at the sight of the tousle-haired youngster sitting on the couch, staring sleepily at him with wide, innocent blue-green eyes. "I didn't hear you had a son, though."

Obi-Wan blinked, eyes widening even further. Qui-Gon cleared his throat, crossing to stand by the couch and lay a hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is Obi-Wan Kenobi, our young friend. He's staying with Julune and me for a time while he recovers from a rather serious illness."

"Hmm, yes. I thought the child looked rather peaked." Dooku seemed to be peering down his nose at the boy, but Qui-Gon knew that this was the way the man interacted with everyone, even sentients he respected greatly. It was an entirely unconscious attitude of superiority, and it fit the powerful Jedi like a well-worn cloak, comfortable and homey. And it made Qui-Gon smile to see his old teacher looking and acting so exactly as he remembered him.

"Obi-Wan, this is an old friend of mine," Qui-Gon said, gently squeezing the youngster's shoulder. "He taught me about the Force, many years ago, and we've kept in touch. Though not always very well," he admitted with a wry twist of his lips.

Obi-Wan nodded, very slightly, staring up at the Jedi in something like awe or appreciation, though Qui-Gon realized that neither word was quite correct. It was almost as if the boy was . . . evaluating Dooku, and coming to a conclusion. Though what that might be was not clear. "I've heard of you, Master Dooku."

"Can't say the same," Dooku said, not unkindly. His thick black brows seemed to knit together. "Though I wonder . . ."

He looked at Qui-Gon. "A kindred spirit of yours?"

Qui-Gon hesitated, thinking of the bond. "You might say that."

"Hmm." Again the supercilious, questioning look was turned to the pale-faced lad. "You should be a Jedi, just as Qui-Gon should be. The Force around you fairly sings with power. Why aren't you a Padawan? Did your parents make the same choice as Qui-Gon's? To keep you?"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, then closed it and lowered his head, staring down at his hands clasped in his lap. "No." It was a nearly-silent murmur, empty of any sign of emotion. "No one chose to keep me."

The black brows scrunched yet more firmly together, and Qui-Gon recognized that look of Dooku's, the one he wore when bent to a puzzle he was determined to solve. He stepped forward to prevent the Jedi from making more blunt declarations, probing more open wounds. Dooku was not the most sensitive man in the galaxy, to say nothing of his tact.

"Have you met my wife yet? I don't think you have. Julune!" he called, turning toward the kitchen. "Dearheart, we have a visitor."

A sound of clattering came from the kitchen, and after a moment Julune appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Her brows were knit in a disturbing mirror of Dooku's, a slight frown gracing her perfect lips. Though Qui-Gon knew the expression wasn't aimed at him, he felt an apprehensive shiver pass over his chest. He had learned to be wary of that face. Julune Graffon-Jinn was a force to be reckoned with when riled.

"Yes, I heard him come in." She gave the elegant Jedi a cordial nod. "I'm pleased to meet you, Knight Dooku."

The man gently cleared his throat, one eyebrow raising slightly.

Julune raised a hand, nodding deeply in acquiescence, then raising her head to continue her dark stare. "Sorry. _Master_ Dooku. Welcome to Bandomeer."

Qui-Gon grimaced. He'd forgotten how easily sound carried in these tiny quarters Obviously, she'd heard the entire conversation so far, and was less than pleased.. Julune's frosty tone spoke much more plainly then her hospitable words—he would have to speak to her later, make her understand that this was just Dooku's way. Both his wife and his old teacher simply were who they were, both dear to his heart, and he would never try to change either of them. He only hoped they wouldn't come to blows before he had a chance to mediate a truce.

However, Qui-Gon was fully aware that these particular negotiations had a high likelihood of failing miserably. Julune was typically calm and laid-back, laughing off any slights to herself with sparkling, merry eyes, so comfortable in her skin that such words simply slid off. But she did not respond as well to disparaging words or gestures aimed at her work, her family, her planet—and most especially, her husband. And now Qui-Gon saw that when it came to Obi-Wan—this vulnerable youngster who had slipped so easily and tenderly into their home and their hearts—when it came to this boy, Julune was a full-tilt mother she-niber, and her claws had just been unsheathed.

Then, with a flash of insight, he understood. It wasn't so much Dooku's words that had set her off—anyone could have made an innocent mistake, unknowingly pricked Obi-Wan with uncomfortable questions. It was the fact that this was a Jedi, and the Jedi had hurt this boy. That was all it took to rouse Julune's protective instincts to full, alarmingly feral life. It truly was as simple as that.

"Master Dooku, won't you sit down?" Qui-Gon asked, pouring warmth into his voice as a subtle message to everyone in the room. He spread a hand toward the recliner still drawn up next to the couch, absently massaging Obi-Wan's shoulder with his other hand.

Dooku nodded his thanks. He removed his cloak with a rather lovely flourish—it was either entirely natural or had been practiced so much that it appeared so—and sat, somehow imbuing the broken-down, sand-colored piece of furniture with the dignity of a throne. Qui-Gon took the cloak and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall, next to his thick green one and Julune's dark red.

Julune took a deep breath. "Will you be staying for supper?" The words were spoken neutrally, without rancor. Qui-Gon knew that only he could hear the sullen, slightly menacing edge beneath them.

"If it's no trouble," the Jedi said smoothly, stretching his long legs out and settling his shoulders back with the satisfied little sigh of a weary traveler coming in to rest.

"Oh, none at all." Julune widened her eyes in a masterful display of innocent surprise, as if shocked that he would even think his presence could be the slightest bother. "It's soup, and there's plenty to go around—I'll just set another place at the table."

"You are most kind, madam."

Julune made a little pish-tosh gesture and turned sharply around to disappear into the kitchen again.

Qui-Gon hesitated. He wanted to go into the kitchen and have a quiet little conversation with Julune, make sure she wouldn't "accidentally" poison Dooku's soup. But it didn't seem safe to leave Obi-Wan and Dooku alone, either. They were again studying each other with intense, focused eyes, the blue-green gently hooded by long lashes and a lowered head, the dark brown clear, straightforward and thoughtful.

With an exasperated shake of his head, Qui-Gon gently nudged the boy to scoot over on the couch, then sat next to him, his arm circling the slender shoulders without conscious thought. And Obi-Wan leaned into him, also without thought, much of the tension in his slight frame instantly fleeing as if repelled by that simple touch. Qui-Gon did notice the slightly sardonic smirk that touched the corner of Dooku's mouth, and glanced instinctively down at the boy tucked under his arm. Only then did he realize what he'd done. But Obi-Wan didn't look up, and Qui-Gon decided not to move.

"So, what brings you to Bandomeer, Master Dooku?" Qui-Gon asked.

"Just thought I'd drop in and see you, old friend." Dooku straightened the creases on his trousers, plucking at them with long fingers.

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you had our itinerary. Julune and I only stay on a particular planet for a couple of months—it makes it rather difficult for most people to keep up with where we are."

Dooku shrugged. "Itinerary? I would have commed ahead if I had known I was coming. No, I was flying by the system on the way back to Coruscant when I had a feeling that I should stop by. I didn't understand why—a nasty little world, this. But I have learned to listen to strange voices in the night, on rare occasions, mind you."

Qui-Gon smirked. Even the idiosyncratic little phrases Dooku used reminded him of the time they had spent together years ago, Qui-Gon exploring the Force like a child in a toy store, Dooku patiently explaining how it all worked, where things should go, and why it was best to stay away from the shadowy corners where spiders lurked. He had to fight to keep the nostalgic mood from overtaking him. Julune was still agitated, and Obi-Wan was definitely struggling within himself, as well. It wouldn't be fair of Qui-Gon to abandon them so he could sink into the past.

"Well, I'm glad you decided to follow that particular witch-light into the fog," he said warmly. "It's been too long. We have a great deal of catching up to do."

But Dooku was again staring at the young boy, who seemed to have found something infinitely fascinating on the tip of his left index finger, and was studying it intently. "On further thought, I think the name Kenobi does ring a chime," he said slowly. "Were you . . .?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan said abruptly. A tremor ran through his body, but he lifted his chin and looked his interrogator directly in the eye. His voice was clear, the words slightly clipped. "Two weeks ago, I was a Jedi initiate. I was not chosen by a master, so I was sent to join the Agri-Corps here on Bandomeer."

Dooku's dark eye flashed. "Not chosen? _Not chosen?"_ He sat forward in his seat, his hands clenching the armrests. "A child of your obvious talent and power, shining so brightly in the Force that the light all but crosses over into the physical realm— _you_ were not chosen? What is wrong with those idiots at the Temple?"

Obi-Wan was taken aback—he leaned against Qui-Gon's arm, as if attempting to sink into the couch to escape the Jedi's rising voice. Qui-Gon pressed him closer and just stared at his old teacher, amazed. He had never seen the man in such high dudgeon.

And it appeared to be getting higher. Dooku suddenly jumped to his feet and began to pace, the prowl of a large, carnivorous creature bent low to the ground to sniff its prey. He even growled a bit, his fists quivering at his sides. "I knew it. I knew it! Something's gone wrong. There's a pall over the Order—we've gotten weak, clouded, tied to the strings of the Senate . . . Not our own. Shouldn't be this way. More and more talented children are being allowed to fall through the cracks, and the mediocre, the mundane, the _rule-bound . . ."_ He spat this word like a foul-tasting morsel, a bit of bone caught in his teeth. The dark gaze flashed to Qui-Gon, to the boy, and forward again as the man continued to pace. ". . . these are the ones who rise," he finished, shaking a finger in the air. "The low, the cringers and scrapers. I knew it. I _knew_ something was off."

He paused to point at the boy, his finger now quivering with outrage. His dark eyebrows were bent over eyes that seemed to spark with disgust, daring the boy to contradict him. "Did no one speak to you at all? Did anyone try to explain why no Master would take you? Was it because you were too passionate, too unpredictable, too headstrong?"

Obi-Wan shrank yet further against Qui-Gon, but he answered, his voice trembling only a little bit. "Y-yes, Master Dooku. I had one last chance, and I . . . I fought too aggressively. Knight Xanatos was disturbed, and he said . . ."

"Xanatos." Dooku sat suddenly, heavily, in his chair, the single word seeming to escape his mouth rather than be spoken. It took all of his energy with it, and though his eyes as he stared at the boy were sharp, the ferocious strength of righteous rage no longer sparked there. "That fool. He rejected you, didn't he? The fool, the stupid young fool."

Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly, then gathered himself together, stilling his agitation. He leaned forward a bit, looking curiously at the Master Jedi. "You, you know Knight Xanatos?"

"Why, of course I do." Dooku's voice was grim and hard. "Training him made me a master, after all."

Obi-Wan nodded again, more certainly this time, and leaned back into Qui-Gon's support. He had nothing else to say.


	11. Unlocked Doors

Again four people sat elbow-to-elbow around the tiny table in the cramped kitchen, and again unspoken tensions and wariness filled the air, but this time no one made any effort to discuss what was troubling them, to question and seek answers. Qui-Gon found himself longing for that long-ago tea with the Agri-Corps, less than half a day ago. They had been on the verge of complete distrust, but at least they had resolved their issues. And these three ought to be friends, as close to each other as they were to Qui-Gon—or so he believed. All in all, it was quite disheartening.

Julune refused to speak directly to Dooku, and only looked at him when it was absolutely necessary. When she touched the soup pot, Qui-Gon could have sworn he saw the temperature descend at least two degrees. Her attitude toward Obi-Wan was as warm and open as always—even more so, perhaps—but there was definitely an edge beneath the words she aimed at her husband. She was disappointed that he didn't throw the Jedi out on his rear, obviously.

Dooku seemed oblivious—he chatted companionably, answering Qui-Gon questions about what he'd been up to and asking his own, laughing at the same old jokes and stories they had always told each other. But Qui-Gon noticed the speculative eye that was turned to the boy every now and again, and the thoughtful glances thrown toward Julune. Dooku was not the best diplomat in the Jedi Order, but he had the makings of a fine politician, always aware of the unseen interplay in a room.

Obi-Wan's reaction, though, was most troubling of all. He had turned very, very quiet, rarely looking up from his soup bowl. He slowly crumbled the crackers Julune pressed into his hand to fine, grainy dust, crushing them deliberately against the table with the tip of his finger, crumb by crumb. Qui-Gon watched the level of soup in his bowl, hoping for a rapid descent. But by the end of the meal it was obvious that the boy had eaten only a few bites, if that.

He exchanged a worried glance with Julune. This was not progress. Perhaps she had had the right idea from the beginning—Dooku's presence was not doing their young charge any good at all. A locked door might have prevented this.

But it was too late now. The door had been opened, and things were starting to creep out from the darkness in the closet. Qui-Gon had known that Obi-Wan had many troubles that would need to be dealt with. He had hoped for more time to let the child relax and grow comfortable in his new surroundings, but perhaps it was just as well to bring it all into the light as soon as possible. It could only fester, shoved down and hidden in the blackness.

"Take another Padawan?" Dooku laughed, responding to Qui-Gon's latest question. "I think not! Training young Xanatos was enough aggravation for a lifetime. You do recall that my hair wasn't _completely_ white the last time we met?"

Qui-Gon grinned. "True, true. But I assumed that it was simply because you are no longer middle-aged."

"Teasing me about my age now, are you?" Dooku wagged a finger in good-natured warning. "I'm quite capable of slapping you down for that, you insolent little wretch. And you're not that much younger than I, if you'll recall."

Qui-Gon sat back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his chest in contentment. This was the Dooku he remembered, the playful back-and-forth they had perfected over months and years of easy companionship. "Fifteen years is a long time, old man."

"Not nearly long enough," Dooku grumbled. He cast an appraising look glance up and down his old student. "Forty-three and expecting your first child. It took you a long time to find your place in the galaxy."

Qui-Gon sat forward, letting his hands fall into his lap. This was a serious comment and deserved a serious answer. "I don't think anyone truly ever 'finds their place' in life. Roles change and develop over time—people evolve, and their characters mature. Earlier in my life I was a wanderer, and for a time I was your student. Now the moment requires that I be a husband, a friend, an open ear and willing hand. In a few months I will be a father. But who knows what new things I will be doing in a year, or five years? I will live each moment as I find direction to do so. I have no regrets, and I expect to die with none."

"Ah, yes. The possibilities are endless, are they not?" Dooku nodded slowly. "You are a wise man, Qui-Gon Jinn. I never taught you that." He flashed a white-toothed grin, teasing and serious at once.

"Life teaches me. Each day brings new lessons to those willing to learn."

Julune nudged him, and he glanced instinctively over at the boy. Obi-Wan was drooping, his eyelids struggling upward, then falling again, his head sinking toward his soup. Qui-Gon cleared his throat, very softly, and Obi-Wan instantly raised his head to stare at him with wide eyes, obviously surprised to realize he'd been nodding off at the table.

Qui-Gon smiled gently, hesitated, then reached out and touched his cheek just for a moment before pulling away. "You must be tired, and no wonder. Are you done eating?"

The boy nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on Qui-Gon's. Then he looked down, his hands twisting the napkin in his lap.

Julune stood abruptly, her thighs bumping the table with a clattering of spoons and a sloshing of soup. "Come to the common room, sweetie. I help you fix up the couch."

She passed Qui-Gon without her usual peck on the cheek, and he sighed. He knew this wasn't the end of it. Obi-Wan followed her without a word, and Dooku looked at him quizzically.

"Do I detect a hint of frost in the air?"

Qui-Gon nodded dolefully. "You are a Jedi. The Jedi rejected that boy, wounded his spirit. Naturally she is protective."

Dooku leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "And she blames you for not tossing me out on my ear." Qui-Gon didn't have to answer. The Jedi sat back, placing his hands on the table on either side of his bowl. "Well, she needn't have worried. I have no intentions of acting like the arrogant fools who chose so poorly. In fact, I don't intend to act much like a Jedi at all, at least not for much longer."

Qui-Gon felt his eyebrows bend. "Master Dooku?"

The other man sighed, and lowered his voice even further. "I have suspected for quite some time that something is amiss in the Jedi Order. The story of that boy confirms my suspicions, certainly, but it is not the only one I've heard. Quite the opposite."

He stared away for a moment, studying something within his own mind, then looked back at his old friend. "Something must be done. When I return to the Temple, I will speak to a few people, encourage a few reforms. And if nothing is done . . . well . . . I will follow the requirements of the moment, as you so eloquently put it."

"You would leave?" Qui-Gon drew in a deep breath, shocked despite himself. For as long as he had known this man, he had always had a deep commitment to the ideals of the Jedi. Certainly Dooku had had points of contention with his brethren, moments of dissatisfaction and dissent, but Qui-Gon had never imagined that the differences would become so insurmountable.

"I hope it doesn't come to that," Dooku said grimly. "But I certainly will not discount the possibility."

They fell silent. Qui-Gon could hear the soft humming from the common room, an ancient folk song of Thyferra, gentle and lilting. It drew a smile to his lips, as busy as his mind was with other thoughts. His Julune would be a wonderful mother when the time came. Surely there could be no one better to soothe the troubled boy who had come into their keeping.

"Keep me informed," he said at last, raising his head to look his old mentor in the eye. "Let's not let another ten years pass without a word, yes?"

Dooku smiled. "Indeed no. Don't be surprised if you from me in less than a month."

They sat in silence, listening to the gentle rise and fall of Julune's voice. After a time Qui-Gon saw the light in the common room switch off, and heard his wife's soft tread heading down the hall toward their chamber. They didn't usually retire quite so early, but he supposed she had as much right to be tired out by the day's events as he did.

The Jedi stood, stretching his arms and shoulder blades. "My accommodations are near the spaceport—I'll be back tomorrow. We have much more to discuss. Do thank Julune for the delicious meal for me." He gave Qui-Gon the same dignified smile as always, raising one eyebrow in an elegant arch, and walked silently out to fetch his cloak from the common room wall.

Qui-Gon continued to sit there, considering all that had happened in the past few hours, the revelations made, the previously closed doors creaking open on unused hinges. It had been a long day, and he looked forward to joining Julune in bed. Then he realized what he'd been staring at with unseeing eyes for the last ten minutes.

A small table completely covered with dirty dishes and a half-full soup pot, liberally sprinkled with cracker crumbs and splashes of soup. Naturally, they'd all left it for Qui-Gon to clean up by himself. He refrained a sigh and set to work.

It didn't occur to him 'til much later that he'd never heard the outside door open and close as Dooku left.

X

Obi-Wan was dreaming again. They were the same dreams as always, the same disjointed images of death and darkness, the same blood coating his hands and blotting out his vision. He watched the universe decay, the Temple die, his friends and teachers fall. The river hurtled over the edge, descending into a void of pure nothing.

He fought, struggling against the horrors that he prayed were only a nightmare, and not a true-seeing. The despair nearly overwhelmed him, and he cried out against it, thrashing helplessly against the knots of thick, icy night that held him in an unyielding grip. It wasn't supposed to be like this! Someone, someone had promised to guard him, protect him from this. He had promised! Where was he?

"Where are you!" Obi-Wan screamed, and watched the images splinter at the power of his voice, shattering and falling, only to be replaced with more. "Where are you? You're not here! You said you would guard my dreams! Was it too much trouble for you? Am I too much trouble for you? Where are you!"

He ran, but he wasn't fast enough. He was never fast enough. A wave crashed up out of nowhere and lifted him off his feet, hurtling him into another sequence of images and feelings, sights and smells, blood, rot, burning, the smell of molten metal and stars going nova. He could not swim, not in this, it was too thick, too powerful, too fast.

"Qui-Gon! Please, Qui-Gon! Where are you?"

Qui-Gon couldn't hear him. He was alone. The wave abandoned him on a freezing rock, the sky boiling with thunderheads above. Obi-Wan hid his face in his hands, sobbing, but his hands could not block out the images, the visions. Despair grabbed him in a strangle-hold, choking off his breath, driving him to his knees.

"Where . . ." It was a bare whisper, halting and weak, just as the boy himself was.

Nearly crushed to the ground, Obi-Wan found the strength to lift one hand, just a few inches, just enough to reach out, just a little. _Please, help me. Somebody. Anybody._

A strange, large hand touched his forehead. "Obi-Wan. Wake now, lad."

Obi-Wan's eyes flew open. That wasn't Qui-Gon's voice.


	12. Breathing

_Qui-Gon! Please, Qui-Gon! Where are you?_

Qui-Gon bolted upright, awake in an instant. He'd hadn't been asleep for more than an hour—a flurried glance at the chrono confirmed this. Julune slept on beside him, her back still an obdurate wall warning him to stay away or risk the loss of important limbs. What had wakened him, then?

It was Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan's voice, thick and shrill with terror. Qui-Gon was out of bed and down the hall in half a dozen running steps, pulling his sleep pants up tight with one hand, the other reaching out to slap the hall light to provide a little illumination in the common room.

Obi-Wan sat upright on the couch, the covers knotted around his waist, eyes wide and dilated in the diffuse wedge of light from the hall. He was breathing hard, much too fast, his chest heaving rapidly to drag in great gulps of panicked air.

But his hands were jammed over his mouth to suffocate any noise he might have made, tendons standing out, knuckles bent in rigid trembling. A shiver of sorrow passed through Qui-Gon's spirit. This instinctive reaction spoke more eloquently than words of what Obi-Wan had suffered in the weeks before he came here. That the child had trained himself to silence so quickly any outcry against the terror that played out in his mind . . .

But as Qui-Gon approached, the white-knuckled hands eased and lifted, just enough to allow speech.

"Qui-Gon . . ." It was a breathless moan, panted out in broken jerks.

"Shhh, little one, I'm here, I'm here." Two more steps and Qui-Gon was kneeling by the couch, gently untangling the blankets, pulling his hands away and holding them in his own. "Calm down, now. Obi-Wan? I need you to calm down. Can you do that for me? You're hyperventilating. You'll pass out if you don't calm down."

Obi-Wan nodded shakily, obedient as always, but his body was more rebellious. Still the harsh breaths came, sharp and fast, grating against Qui-Gon's ears. Letting out his breath and calming himself forcibly, Qui-Gon did the only thing he could think of. He pulled the boy to his chest, holding him tightly with one arm about his waist, and began to rub his back in slow, firm circles.

"Focus on my hand, Obi-Wan. Think about my hand. Feel its movement." Obi-Wan stilled, listening, his breath struggling to copy the cadence as he concentrated on the motion of Qui-Gon's hand. "That's it. Just my hand, that's all you need to think about right now. Nothing else matters. Just the hand, just the circles. Fall into the pattern, the rhythm. That's it, that's my brave boy."

Qui-Gon nodded in approval. "You're doing very well. Shhh. Quiet. Peace. There is no danger here, no pain, no fear. Each day is a circle. The sun rises and sets, and we follow its movement across the sky. It moves in slow, calm circles, steady and unchanging, as reliable as the Force. That's it, Obi-Wan. Good job. Just a little slower. Just a little . . . There. That's my brave little one, my brave Obi-Wan. All is well. All is well."

Gradually as he spoke Qui-Gon softened his voice and his touch, feeling Obi-Wan's body relax and his heartbeat regain equilibrium, his breathing slow and even out with only the occasional subdued hitch. At last the man released his breath in relief, watching it wander through the soft hair nestled under his chin. Obi-Wan's arms, twined about his waist at some point, tightened slightly.

"It's all right. I'm not going to let you go. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." Qui-Gon felt the tiny nod against his chest, and the loosening of tension in the prominent shoulder blades beneath his hand, which was still caressing the boy's back in gentle, leisurely revolutions.

He was quiet for a time, just breathing, letting Obi-Wan breathe. Then he drew in a breath and pressed his hand flat against the boy's knobby spine. "Now, can you tell me what happened?"

Obi-Wan turned his head slightly to speak more clearly, but his voice was still barely audible. "You weren't there."

"I know. I'm so sorry. Did you dream?"

Again the tiny nod, and a short, muffled sniff. "It's bad when you aren't there."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave you alone."

Obi-Wan pulled in a deep breath, still slightly shaky, but much more controlled. "Just . . . just don't do it again. Please?"

"I won't. I won't, Obi-Wan. You have my word."

Again silence, the gentle pulse of calm breathing. After a time Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan's breath hitch strongly, and knew he had something more to say.

"I've never been so scared before."

"You expected me to be there, and I wasn't. But that will never be a problem again. You don't have to bear it by yourself anymore."

Again the faint nod, childlike and trusting, believing without question that Qui-Gon would never leave him alone, would do everything in his power to protect him. _Dear Force, don't let me fail this child,_ Qui-Gon prayed suddenly, fervently.

He knelt there, holding the boy, until his knees began to ache and he felt the head against his chest becoming heavy with the weight of sleep, the slender arms about his torso beginning to loosen and slide downward. Carefully, he nudged the boy, shifting his body toward the couch. "All right, Obi-Wan. Let me up. I'll sit next to you."

Obi-Wan shook himself slightly more awake and reluctantly let his arms slide away, straightening his back and blinking at the man in sleepy curiosity. Qui-Gon boosted himself up to sit on the couch beside the boy, patting his thigh in invitation. Obi-Wan blinked at him again, just once, then willingingly slid down under the covers to lay his head on Qui-Gon's leg, a soft sigh whispering through parted lips.

Qui-Gon adjusted the blankets around the narrow shoulders as Obi-Wan settled, wriggling slightly to find a comfortable position. The boy stilled himself quickly, though, as if afraid that too much movement would scare Qui-Gon off. The man smiled sadly, threading his fingers through soft reddish locks. "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere."

Obi-Wan nodded gently, already drifting. Qui-Gon reached out with the Force to switch off the light in the hall. He sat in the darkness and let his eyes adjust, repetitively sliding his fingers through the boy's hair, encouraging calm, giving tangible evidence of his continued presence . . . and his growing affection. Force knew the child needed it.

When he knew that Obi-Wan was sleeping—though too lightly for his liking—he raised his head to look at the shadowy figure in the corner, half-hidden behind the potted plant Qui-Gon kept there. "I thought you said you were leaving."

Dooku's shrug was almost invisible in the dimness, the room lit by the flickering yellow street lamp outside the bay window. "I said that I had accommodations near the spaceport. I didn't necessarily say that I was going there."

Qui-Gon huffed a silent sigh. He was well aware of how easy it would be to fall into an argument of semantics with this man, one that he would not win. "I didn't sense you. And neither did Obi-Wan."

"It's not that hard to mask one's presence in the Force." The Jedi's voice turned thoughtful. "Though I don't think I ever taught you that particular skill, come to think of it . . ."

Qui-Gon refrained from shaking his head in prim disapproval. For a moment only they sat in silence, and then he could not contain himself any longer. "Why did you stay?" He spoke in a fierce murmur, mindful of the youngster who slept shallowly beside him.

Dooku released a short sigh. And the Dooku Qui-Gon knew _never_ sighed. It was far too childish and transparent a method of expressing himself. "I suppose you might say I was fascinated. Enthralled, even."

Qui-Gon could hear the iciness of his own tone, an involuntary echo of another self-appointed protector under this roof who had perceived a threat to her charge. "By what?"

"By the Force, naturally. Surely you have perceived it? The currents around that boy swirl in the most intriguing whorls and eddies . . . I have never encountered such in all my days. Destiny fairly clings to him—new paths are being laid and as quickly discarded with every word he speaks, every move he makes. Truly, Qui-Gon, I don't see how you could have failed to notice."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're saying."

The Jedi was silent for a moment. Then he drew in a quick, sharp breath. "It's connected to you, as well."

Qui-Gon's fingers paused in the boy's hair, then continued. "You speak in riddles."

A soft, wry chuckle. "Ah, and what is the Force but a riddle to be solved, one that even the wisest has never fully penetrated?"

The younger man shook his head in irritation. "Stop it."

"Not even a 'please,' my old student?" Dooku was silent for a moment. Then he spoke more softly, the sarcasm carefully wiped away from his tone and manner. "I apologize. It was not my intent to abuse your hospitality or violate your trust. I mean no harm to you, nor to the child."

Qui-Gon relaxed marginally, but it was not enough.

Dooku hesitated, then tilted his head toward the sleeping Obi-Wan. "His dreams were terrible, whatever they were. The Force about him seemed to be weeping, but at the same time, it was firm and unyielding. Perhaps they were visions, horrors from the future or the past, things that need to be seen and understood, and perhaps prevented or made right." His voice quieted in thought. "Still, he was silent. Even in the worst throes of it, the boy made no sound."

Qui-Gon was surprised to recognize respect in the older man's voice. Respect for a young boy. He hadn't expected that.

Dooku nodded slowly, as if acknowledging this. "I tried to wake him, but he only panicked more at the sight of me, so I backed off. It's obvious that he knows and trusts you, and expects you to have some kind of power over his terrors. How long have you known each other?"

"Two days. No, not even that. A day and a half."

"A day and a half," the Jedi repeated in a monotone murmur.

Obi-Wan stirred in his slumber, an inarticulate utterance crawling from uncooperative lips, the flesh around his eyes twitching as if to ward off pain. Qui-Gon looked down at him, cupping a hand around the young cheek that seemed to glow with golden undertones in the sallow light of the street lamp, the curve of a new-born moon, smooth and unmarked. A plain of possibilities, of secrets, but so very lonely hanging isolated in space. The boy calmed at the touch, unconsciously shifting to press against the man's callused palm, and Qui-Gon was carefully still, just being there.

"You have a bond," Dooku said, his voice utterly serious. "I felt it flare to life just before you ran out here like a man on fire. It must have been dormant before, shut down by some kind of shock or trauma. But in his fear he reached out to you, and you answered. It must be very strong indeed, to accomplish this after being a part of you for such a small space of time."

Qui-Gon made a non-committal noise, still watching the boy's silent features. "I know nothing about bonds, or what they can do. I didn't even know that was the name for it until Obi-Wan told me."

"It was never necessary for me to teach you. But that has changed." Dooku's voice neared, as earnest as Qui-Gon had ever heard it. "As powerful as this bond is, it's possible that it may be true, what Obi-Wan believes—you may actually be able to influence his dreams. Or you may be able to learn how, with a little training. Do you wish it?"

Still Qui-Gon's eyes were fixed on the young face below him, guarding against anything that would dare to disturb his Obi-Wan's rest. The question required no thought at all. "Yes. Yes, I wish it. What is required?"

"Only the presence of the bond itself. Willingness to learn. Trust. And that is there. He relates to you with the pure innocence of a very small child, believing that you can make anything better."

"It's amazing," Qui-Gon murmured. "Absolutely amazing. I have done nothing to merit such unshakable faith. And so many others have failed him. I almost expected him to apologize for disturbing me, which would have torn my heart yet again. But he didn't. He just asked me to be there."

"As I said, the innocence and faith of a very small child. It is perhaps the only way in which this boy is not already far too old for his years."

Qui-Gon nodded. He stroked his thumb along the prominent cheekbone, feeling the boy slide into a deeper, more peaceful sleep as the contact continued. He was quickly learning what Obi-Wan needed, and how to provide it. It was good.

"Only one more thing," Dooku continued, very quietly. "This trust . . . you need to have it in the one teaching you, as well. I cannot gauge for myself—is it there?"

Qui-Gon looked up, staring deeply into the eyes of his old friend, his teacher and mentor, dark and soft in this strange light as they never were in daylight. He understood what the man was asking, and what he was offering. It was a serious question and deserved consideration.

"I . . . I hope so," he said at last, after several moments of uncomfortable silence had chasmed between them. He chuckled suddenly, careful to keep his hand steady on Obi-Wan's cheek, only his chest moving. "You're fortunate that it is I and not Julune who has a bond with Obi-Wan. She might have done murder if she came out to comfort her frightened cubling and found you sitting in the common room."

Dooku chuckled, too, but it really wasn't very funny.

Qui-Gon exhaled a breath. "Come back tomorrow, and we'll discuss it. Everything will look more clear in the morning. It always does."

Dooku nodded in acceptance, then quietly stood, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders. "Good night, Qui-Gon."

"Good night."

This time Qui-Gon watched as the Jedi Master crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. He did not take his eyes off the entrance to his home for the smallest fraction of time.


	13. Tilting World

"What is this?"

Obi-Wan eyed the thick, pinkish stuff in his bowl with some doubt, then prodded it with his spoon. It was thinner than yesterday's porridge, and seemed to jiggle unpleasantly. It also had chunks. Obi-Wan was wary of chunks.

"It's called yughor," Qui-Gon said patiently as he sat down opposite the boy, folding his hands above his own bowl. He aborted the boy's search for the syrup pitcher with a raised eyebrow. "It's already sweetened, and it has lots of redberries and mountainberries mixed in. It's quite tasty." He took a large bite in demonstration, and made a satisfied little "mmm" sound.

Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. "Julune says this is best for me?"

"Yes. Something about replacing enzymes or cultures or some such. Half the time I don't know what she's talking about. But it's not an uncommon dish, lad. What kind of food did you eat in the Temple?"

The boy shrugged, poking his yughor again. It still reminded him of Hutt slime. "I don't know. Normal food, I guess. Not this."

He looked up quickly, afraid that he would find displeasure or—even worse—disappointment on Qui-Gon's face, but the man was grinning at him. "Eat yughor every morning for a few months, and you'll find it normal. I admit that I was skeptical when Julune introduced me to it, myself, but it's quite popular on Thyferra, and I learned to enjoy it. It's good for you, too. You know that I would never try to feed you Hutt slime."

Obi-Wan had lowered his gaze, but at this he looked up again, eyes wide, then scowled down at the yughor. "I knew that," he said unnecessarily. Already it seemed that they hardly needed to use words, sometimes.

The failed Jedi initiate uttered a small sigh and loaded his spoon with pinkish glop. It was worth a try, if only to appease the man who had already given him far too much. With an intense feeling of diving blind into dark and dangerous waters, he thrust the spoon into his mouth.

Qui-Gon choked and jerked, trying to hold himself back, then released a loud, hearty laugh at Obi-Wan's expression of indignation and betrayal. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. Doesn't it taste good?"

The boy hastily removed the spoon from his mouth and dropped it on the table, sputtering in outrage, puckering his lips and trying to clean out his mouth with a napkin. "It's sour and chunky and cold and gooey! It tastes like curdled milk! You said it was good!"

"It is, it is," Qui-Gon assured him, reaching across the table to grasp the shaking fingers skewering the now wet and soiled napkin. "You just need to get used to it. The first bite is the worst. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have laughed. Calm down, now. I didn't mean to deceive you, little one."

Obi-Wan drew a shuddering breath and began to calm, even though the sour, sticky taste still clung to the back of his throat. Maybe it wasn't so bad, he considered. He just hadn't expected that acidic bite under the sweet flavor of mountainberries and redberries. "You call me that a lot," he observed quietly.

Qui-Gon stilled, looking at him earnestly. "Does it bother you?"

Obi-Wan pondered for a moment, then shook his head. "No. No, it doesn't bother me." He looked up at the man still holding his hand in a firm, warm grip, and managed a genuine smile, the first he could remember rising up in him for many, many days. "I . . . I like it."

Qui-Gon smiled back, then gently released him. "I'm glad."

Obi-Wan ducked his head, looking at the yughor. Maybe just one more bite, just to make sure it was really as awful as he'd thought . . .

Ah, it wasn't so bad. Two more bites confirmed this. "It still tastes like curdled milk," the boy accused, just to make sure the man knew that the matter had not been dropped.

Qui-Gon made a non-committal humming noise. "Remind me never to show you how yughor is made."

Another bite, and Obi-Wan felt that he would burst. His stomach still churned with nausea whenever he ate something, and a deep, buried part of him was afraid that this would never go away. He stirred the yughor slowly, looking for a chunk of mountainberry. When he found it, he ate one more spoonful, hoping that it wasn't too much, that he wouldn't prove how much trouble he was by yarking all over the table.

"Would you like to go outside today?" Qui-Gon asked.

"Oh, yes. Very much." Obi-Wan lifted his head, quick happiness surging through him. He hadn't realized it until now, but he was growing very tired of the drab gray walls and limited space, the close atmosphere and the lumpy couch on which he had spent far too much time, sitting or sleeping or just staring at the plain ceiling. The Jinns had done their best to brighten up the small rooms and worn furnishings, with colorful wall hangings and healthy plants, but it would be wonderful to see the sun again.

"It's not as nice as the Enrichment Zone here," Qui-Gon said apologetically. "The sky is tainted, the sun dimmed, and the ground is spoiled by constant mining and pollution. But there is still life in Bandor, and I don't think you're up for a long trip just yet."

"I'd rather be here than in the Enrichment Zone," Obi-Wan said, still stirring his breakfast. "But I thought your friend was going to come back this morning."

"I commed him while you were in the 'fresher, asked him to wait 'til the afternoon."

Obi-Wan nodded. He did not express the enormous relief that swelled in him, and he hoped it wasn't too obvious. It would be rude to show such blatant disdain for the man Qui-Gon respected so deeply.

But disdain wasn't quite the right word for what Obi-Wan felt about the Jedi Master. What was it? Not fear, foreboding, nor awe, amazement, anticipation or distrust. But it contained elements of all of these. Still Obi-Wan was left struggling to understand, as usual. How he longed for even a few moments of clarity! Would they never come?

Knowing that he wasn't going to be able to eat any more, Obi-Wan pushed his bowl toward the middle of the table and stood. Immediately the room blurred and the floor began to tilt from side to side, and it was all he could do remain on his feet. His hands instinctively flew to his temples, as if to make the strange sensations stop. All color began to leech from the world, leaving it tinged a strange greenish-white, slowly floating upward.

Without a break between, as if time had somehow skipped from one moment to the next, Qui-Gon's hands were on his shoulders holding him steady. "Obi-Wan." The voice was urgent, concerned. "Obi-Wan? Are you all right?"

Obi-Wan shook his head, falling forward slightly, and felt himself caught against a warm, solid chest. He stood still, just breathing slowly and steadily, and watched the world right itself, the correct color and sharpness reappearing. Finally the floor was steady, as well, but the oddness remained in his head, a slow, dull pounding that was not quite pain. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Just . . . dizzy. I'm all right now."

He pulled back, but Qui-Gon did not let go of his shoulders. "You know why, don't you?" he asked with a touch of sternness. "You need to eat more, Obi-Wan. Your body needs nourishment to heal, to grow stronger. You want to get well, don't you?"

"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan whispered painfully. His vision blurred again, fixed on the dingy tiles beneath their feet, and he tried to push it away. Why couldn't Qui-Gon understand that he was doing the best he could? "I'm sorry. I . . . I'm trying. It just . . . it hurts, and . . . and I can't."

Qui-Gon was very still, and Obi-Wan sensed that he was listening with every fiber of his being.

The boy pressed his hands flat against his head, trying to swallow the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, along with the sour taste of yughor. He wanted to explain, but the words flitted beyond his reach, mocking his pitiful efforts. "I'm sorry," he said again, dully, as if that stupid little phrase could ever make up for all the trouble this man had gone to, all that he had given, and given up, all for a helpless child who could never return these priceless gifts. He swallowed again, begging the Force not to let him be sick, to shame himself completely and irrevocably.

Abruptly he was pulled against that solid chest again, the breath all but squeezed from his body. "Oh, little one, I'm so sorry. Don't apologize. None of this is your fault. It's mine. You told me why you had trouble eating, but I forgot, or ignored you. Don't blame yourself. These dreams, or . . . or visions. whichever they are, have upset your body, as well as your mind and spirit. You're doing the best you can. We need to deal with the source of the problem, not just the symptoms."

Obi-Wan nodded slightly, feeling the nausea slowly recede, though it did not leave completely. It never did. A small, slow flame ignited inside him, in the center of the deep coldness that had gripped him for so long. Qui-Gon had said "we." The blurriness of his vision faded away, and he realized that it hadn't been dizziness at all.

"Come into the garden," Qui-Gon said, gently leading him toward a door set in a dark corner of the kitchen.

Obi-Wan blinked as he stepped outside, slightly dazzled by the light, even though it was gray and tinged by the blackened sky above. His vision cleared quickly, and he gasped in delight. Green! The small space just behind the little house was green, all shades of it, with blotches and smears of color from flowers here and there, long grasses stirring in the tainted breeze. The oppressive smell of Bandomeer, of acid and smoke, was softened beneath the scent of health and life, and Obi-Wan breathed deeply, fingers and toes curling and uncurling as if to join the plants in their growing, for the Force was bright and beautiful here.

"Julune and I haven't been able to do much for it, as we've only been here a month and a half," Qui-Gon said, looking critically about his little spot of paradise. "But it's nicer than being inside, I hope."

"I love it," Obi-Wan said almost absently, slowly stepping forward to explore. Large flat rocks were scattered about, set into the ground, as if waiting for a youngster to come to play, to jump from one to another in an aimless path meant only for pleasure. "It's very beautiful. No grain, no fruit trees . . . just life for the sake of life. This is home."

Obi-Wan couldn't see the man, staring avidly at a plant he'd never seen before, even in the most exotic greenhouses of the Temple, but he heard the grin in Qui-Gon's voice. "I'm glad you like it. I'll go in and clean up. You stay out here and enjoy the morning."

The boy barely heard. He was already standing by the solitary tree that grew beside the wall, one hand on the rough, twisted bark as he looked up into the twisted branches as if seeking a mystery in the strangely-shaped leaves that shivered in the breeze.

X

When Qui-Gon came back outside, he found Obi-Wan laying on the big rock in the middle of the garden, his eyes closed, peace in every line of his slender body beneath the too-large tunic that draped over his arms like a blanket and exposed part of his scrawny chest. The sun caressed the care-worn young face, which seemed to catch the gold hidden in the gray light, glowing from within. The man approached quietly and crouched down, watching the boy doze. If only he could prevent all fear and distress from disturbing this little lad. If only he could capture this moment in amber, preserve it in polished stone, like an ornament for a necklace of peaceful days, one following the other.

But too quickly the boy felt his presence. He stirred, then sat, blinking sleepily up at his large caretaker. "Is something on your mind?"

Qui-Gon sighed and sat beside him on the rock, smiling gently as he felt the slim body lean confidently against him, without hesitation. Indeed, this was the innocence and faith of a small child. He had come very close to betraying that this morning, even if it might have seemed a small matter to an outsider. He needed to tread more lightly and carefully around this wounded youngster. Not for the universe would he ever invite another breach of faith.

"Do you remember what I said about dealing with the source of the problem, not the symptoms?"

He felt Obi-Wan's body tense slightly, but he answered with complete calm. "I remember. Have you found a way for us to do that?"

And Qui-Gon heard the hope in the boy's voice, tentative, emerging slowly, as if afraid that it had no place here. "Perhaps. But it is your choice whether or not we pursue this avenue."

"What is it?"

Qui-Gon looked down at the red-gold head that leaned against his arm, stray tangles of hair catching the sun in a corona of light. "Master Dooku offered to help us learn how to use our bond. He said I might be able to influence your dreams. And if I can see them, and understand, perhaps we can discover what should be done."

"Master Dooku," Obi-Wan repeated, his voice without inflection. But Qui-Gon could feel the tension increase.

"As I said, this will be your decision. I know you are unsure about my old teacher, and I would never force you into anything. I will only say that I trust Master Dooku with my life, and always have. But that doesn't mean that I will trust him with yours. Not without your consent."

For a long time, the boy said nothing.


	14. Shifting Sky

"Do you believe that the future can be changed?"

The man and boy lay on the large rock in the middle of the garden, shoulders just barely touching, as they gazed up at the gray-flecked clouds.

"Yes, I believe that," Qui-Gon said gravely. "Odd little moments that seem like coincidences can have huge impact on what follows. A kind word or deed can prevent a sorrowful being from doing something drastic. Or a general can lend his cloak on a cold night to a sleeping assistant, and days later die of lung-sickness. Indeed, sometimes the largest events turn on the smallest hinges."

"Do you believe that darkness is inevitable, born into a person? That a man can be born with evil in his soul, and it will always come out, when he is young or when he is old?"

Qui-Gon considered, watching the clouds drift by like waves in a tossing sea, continuously changing. "No, I don't believe that. I was told that if I ever called on the Dark Side, it would forever dominate my destiny. So I am ever-watchful against that. But dominate is not the same as control. If I ever did touch the Dark Side—though I don't intend to, never fear, my young friend—even then, I would resist it with everything within me. It would always be harder to fight, perhaps, if I once surrendered to that easy power, but I would never stop fighting."

"Do you believe that another person would fight as hard as you would?"

"Well, it depends on the person." Qui-Gon frowned, watching strange images form in the shifting clouds, the outline of a rearing dragon fading to a cowering rodent, a ship in full sail transforming to a meaningless collection of shapes. "I know that _you_ would never turn, Obi-Wan. I heard you say as much to that knight who brought you here, and I heard the conviction in your voice. You have made a commitment to the Light, and you will never waver. I know that as I know that my love for Julune is eternal, and hers for me."

Obi-Wan rolled up on one elbow to look into Qui-Gon's face, and the man saw the small, lovely smile. "Thank you."

Qui-Gon felt that he had won a prize, struck some sort of cosmic jackpot. That was twice this morning that the boy had smiled at him, this after never before coming close in all the time they had spent together. And it was one of the most beautiful smiles Qui-Gon had ever seen, in all his wanderings across the galaxy—it glowed in the bright blue-green eyes, shone behind the bruised skin like the delicate tint of sunlight through a fading mist. Only Julune's smile was more beautiful in Qui-Gon's eyes, and this was a very close second.

Obi-Wan rolled back to lay flat again, his head now touching Qui-Gon's shoulder. "It wasn't me I was thinking about, though."

"Who, then? Someone I know?"

The boy made a noise that said neither yes nor no.

But Qui-Gon suddenly understood. "You were thinking of Master Dooku, weren't you?" Obi-Wan still hadn't said whether or not he felt he could trust the Jedi, and Qui-Gon had not pushed him to answer. It was enough to simply lay together in this little garden, to watch the turbulent sky and talk of things inconsequential and otherwise.

Obi-Wan took several deep, slow breaths, outwardly very still, though Qui-Gon guessed that it was much different within. At last he nodded, the movement small and guarded against the man's shoulder. "I don't . . . I don't understand a lot of what I see in my dreams. It is enough to catch an image here or there—an impression, a strong feeling. Those stay with me very well indeed—they haunt me, I guess is the right word. And one of them . . . one of them was Master Dooku's face. He was smiling, and . . . and he carried a red lightsaber. I've never seen a red lightsaber outside my dreams. But I read, or I heard somewhere . . . that . . . that the Sith carried red 'sabers. I dreamed this before I met him, Qui-Gon."

For a moment Qui-Gon could not breathe. He turned his head, looking away from the sky that seemed suddenly too dark, too shadowed for midday. But he could only see part of that pale young profile, only enough to watch the sandy-red lashes flutter as the boy blinked, then continued staring peacefully upward. "You saw . . ."

The boy nodded gently, tipping his head back and craning his neck so Qui-Gon could see the earnest, slightly worried look in his eyes. "He had a different name, though. Not a master. It was . .. Darth? Or . . . Count . . . oh, I can't remember." He flopped back with a frustrated grunt.

Qui-Gon looked back at the sky. He thought about Master Dooku sitting in his common room, lurking behind the long leaves of the _druisa_ plant with his presence tucked away in a shadowy corner of the Force, and the strange, almost yearning look in his eyes as he studied the sleeping Obi-Wan. He remembered the way Dooku railed against the Order for letting powerful talent slip away, for distrusting strong emotion instead of dealing with it. And he recalled the uneasy set of Obi-Wan's shoulders as he looked at the Jedi, and the ferocious glint in Julune's dark eyes.

"But you said that you would trust Master Dooku with your life," Obi-Wan said softly. "And you said once . . . you said that we would find a new path, that we would find a way to set right what is wrong in the galaxy. Or did I dream that?"

"No," Qui-Gon said gently. "No dream. I said that. And I meant it."

"Then . . . do you believe that it's possible that Master Dooku could find a different path, too? That the future could be changed?"

Qui-Gon swallowed. But truly, there was only one answer he could give to that. He had already said it, after all. "Yes, I believe that."

Silence reigned for a time. Qui-Gon listened to the rustling of the grass, the leaves, the gentle tinkling of the Alderaanian wind chimes Julune had hung outside the back door. A speeder passed by on the street, the sound of its laboring engine muted and distant. Far away, like thunder across a vast plain, came the muffled boom of an explosion in one of the countless mines that pocked the surface of Bandomeer like an infestation of desperate survival.

Obi-Wan drew in a deep breath and released it in a sigh. "Then I trust him, too. For now."

X

Qui-Gon finished rinsing the sweetberries and put them in a bowl, then carried it out to the common room where Dooku and Obi-Wan already sat on the floor, eyeing each other with wariness and curiosity. It was odd to see such similar expressions on such different faces, one old and bearded and habitually guarded, the other young and worn and innocently open. Qui-Gon just shook his head and sank to a cross-legged position beside them, setting the bowl in the center of their three-cornered circle. He had fetched the sweetberries more in the hope that the boy would snack a bit than as a gesture of hospitality toward the visiting master, but there was no need to say this.

"Ah, fresh berries!" The Jedi said with that wide, white-toothed grin of his, scooping up a few. "Thank you, Qui-Gon. Now, are we ready to begin?"

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan looked at each other for a moment, then nodded solemnly. They turned slightly to face each other more fully, practically closing Dooku out of their tight little circle. The boy extended his hands first, allowing them to be engulfed in the man's broad, brown palms. Qui-Gon smiled warmly, and after a infinitesimal hesitation, Obi-Wan smiled back. Jackpot again.

Dooku cleared his throat, and they reluctantly looked back at him. The Jedi tipped his head in apology, but his eyes were determined. "Before we begin this shared meditation, I need to be sure of something. Is this what you both want? Force-bonds, especially of the kind I can see developing between you two, are very strong. At this early stage, it would be relatively easy to cut it off and let it wither away, avoiding all the complications. But if you choose to strengthen it, it will dig deeper into your spirits, and will continue growing until it cannot be erased or diminished, neither by time nor by distance. You will be able to feel each other, know when the other is happy or sad or in physical pain, and the other's perceptions may even seep into your own, especially if you have difficulty learning how to shield. It will always affect you."

The Jedi Master looked between them, his face very grave. "I want you to understand. This is a serious decision. This is forever. Are you prepared for that? Is this what you desire?"

Qui-Gon looked into the boy's eyes, and saw no wavering there. The blue-green depths were steady and open, questioning only if Qui-Gon agreed, not his ability or his trustworthiness. _Neither by time nor by distance . . ._

"Yes," Qui-Gon whispered. "This is what I desire."

Obi-Wan merely nodded.

"Very well," Dooku said softly.

Without another word, they sank into meditation, falling through the thin layer of physical reality into the first level of the Force, where the currents of the present met and mingled in varying shades of light and darkness, deep purple shadow and yellow-white brilliance. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon found each other quickly, their nascent bond guiding them, and it didn't take the Jedi long to hone in on the beacon of their combined presence. And there they floated, three tiny sparks in the reaches of space, three grains of sand in the sea, three motes of dust in the endless cathedral that was the Force.

 _Ah, you've found each other. Very good,_ Dooku said without much surprise. _Now we must go deeper. Whose mind shall we enter first?_

 _Mine,_ Qui-Gon offered immediately, feeling a dim flush of fear from the boy. _I'm more used to opening myself to you, and it's been a very long time since I've had any Force-training, so I'm sure I'll need much more work._

_As you wish._

Qui-Gon looked inward to his personal shields, and carefully pried up a corner to allow entrance into his mind. He could not prevent a shiver of unease at the thought of letting two others into that inner sanctum, but he trusted both the man and the boy with a firm, unwavering faith. Dooku slid inside without hesitation, but Obi-Wan paused, studying Qui-Gon with gentle concern.

_Are you sure?_

_I'm sure,_ Qui-Gon said, watching with faint surprise as a soft globe of white spread out in the Force around them, dissipating as it expanded but still lightening the darker currents and strengthening the brighter ones. Its epicenter was the youngster who floated there beside Qui-Gon, completely at ease in this non-physical world. It was Obi-Wan's selfless care, Qui-Gon understood after a moment, and his own little shock of unexpected joy at that softly-voiced question, that had caused the gentle wave. It was affecting the Force itself, influencing the currents. Obi-Wan seemed utterly oblivious, both to how deeply moved Qui-Gon had been by his instinctive concern and to how it had changed their surroundings.

By all the twinkling stars, this little one had a lot to show him.

 _Come in,_ Qui-Gon said gently. _We have much to learn, you and I._

Obi-Wan sent the impression of a nod, and slipped inside with the softness and ease of a warm wave lapping over wriggling toes at the edge of a lake. He fell into Qui-Gon's mind as if he belonged there, as if he always had, as if this was home and it had been missing the boy as much as he had missed it.

And this was just as it should be, Qui-Gon thought with an inexplicable surge of delight. This was exactly as it should be.


	15. Anchored and Unsettled

Qui-Gon watched carefully as Dooku worked in his mind, touching this and that with the delicacy of a surgeon, gently pushing through the extraneous to reach the essential. Untrained as he was in the art of mind manipulation, Qui-Gon could see that his old teacher was taking care not to disturb anything that he didn't have to, to finish this task as efficiently as possible.

He memorized everything the Jedi did, taking it in and making it a part of himself. It wasn't terribly difficult, it seemed—just complicated and precise. He ought to be able to duplicate the process without too much trouble.

 _Hmm, you don't have to try so hard, you know,_ Dooku said. He seemed to be studying the evidence of past stress on the bright, pulsing cord. _You were trying desperately to grasp it at one point, tightening your grip when it slid away, correct?_

 _Yes,_ Qui-Gon said, and felt a residual spike of fear, the echo of time gone, remembering how desperately he had searched for the missing boy, thick despair welling up when the connection fled from his mental touch, and his enormous, overwhelming relief when he managed to find Obi-Wan despite it all. _It was a . . . difficult time._

 _Should the situation arise again, remain calm,_ Dooku instructed, again the imperious lecturer, pouring out his knowledge and demanding that the listener receive his teaching. _Relax and let the bond flow back where it belongs. Pushing too hard will simply send it farther away._

 _I will,_ Qui-Gon said humbly. Truly, he should have realized this himself. The Force never responded to . . . well, to force. This was a world of reaction, of listening, receiving, allowing, not one of action—demanding, coercing, pulling. At least, the light side wasn't.

_Now, let's draw this further into your mind. Gently now._

Together they brought the bond inward and anchored it deeper in his psyche, where nothing could ever root it out. Only Qui-Gon himself would be able to remove it, and that only with a great deal of pain and effort. And he did not intend to do so. Not ever.

When Obi-Wan touched the anchor with a gentle finger of the Force, adding his own strength to cement it in place, Qui-Gon felt it keenly and brilliantly, a flush of warmth and joy, moonlight on the water, sun in the eyes. The bond was fully alive now, and more than just its presence, Qui-Gon felt _through_ it. Felt the boy at the other end, the purity of his young spirit, the strength of his presence in the larger Force. It wasn't yet complete—the bond wasn't anchored in Obi-Wan's mind yet—but the difference was overwhelming.

 _These smudges are a bit disturbing, though,_ Dooku mused, studying the cord more closely, the dark blotches that had bothered Qui-Gon as soon as he noticed them. They were lighter and less frequent than before, but still present. Like fading bruises, they spoke of past pain. _They mean that something is wrong with your bondmate—something is clouding his spirit._

Obi-Wan's sense was abruptly stained with embarrassment. _I'm sorry._

 _Not your fault,_ Qui-Gon said instantly, trying to envelope the suddenly-trembling mental presence with all the warmth and acceptance that was within him, which was quite a bit. _You have been hurt. We will find healing._

He felt the boy relax, responding with an echo of warmth.

_Everything is going to be all right._

Qui-Gon did not add the words _I promise,_ but the implication was there. And he felt Obi-Wan's relief.

Dooku seemed oblivious to the interplay. _We're finished here. Now we only need to repeat the procedure in the boy's mind._

Obi-Wan did not shrink, did not flinch, and did not protest, but he didn't need to. Qui-Gon already knew.

 _I will do it,_ he said. _Obi-Wan will help me. Thank you for showing us how, Master Dooku._

For a moment there was nothing. Then came the impression of a mental shrug. _As you wish. It will be good practice for you, if want to continue learning how to affect the mind._

 _We'd better surface soon,_ Qui-Gon said, humor stealing into his voice. _Julune will be home soon._

_Point taken._

They rose swiftly, Qui-Gon taking only a moment to replace his mental shields. Even with them at full power, though, Obi-Wan would never be fully closed out of his mind—he could see that already. And he was well pleased.

Qui-Gon opened his physical eyes a fraction after the others, and the first sight that met them was Obi-Wan drooping, eyes weary and smudged, exhausted by the afternoon's exertions. Without conscious thought, he used the grip he still had on the boy's hands to pull him closer and prop him against his side, circling his shoulders with one arm. Obi-Wan released a nearly-silent sigh and sagged into his support, and Qui-Gon could feel him drifting in the nowhere-land between sleep and waking.

"It's all right," he murmured. "Sleep. We'll finish this when you're rested."

Obi-Wan struggled for only a moment, then let himself fade off. It was only a very light sleep, one thin layer of dream between he and the conscious world, but it would help. Qui-Gon settled the boy's head a little more firmly against his shoulder, then looked up to meet the eyes of the Jedi who sat across from them, studying him with an expression that the younger man could not immediately identify.

Dooku just looked at him for a moment. Then he observed quietly, "You will be a good father, Qui-Gon Jinn. No . . ." He shook his head gently. "You already are."

Qui-Gon blinked, at last understanding the emotion displayed so softly in the Jedi's face. Tenderness. He had never seen that in his old teacher before. With a faint sense of wonder, he looked back down at the pale face nestled against his shoulder. "You truly think so?"

"I know so. A bit of advice, though . . ."

He raised his head to meet Dooku's eyes. His advice was usually good. "Yes?"

"Don't hold back. I've seen your hesitation with him, the moment before you begin to reach out, to touch. You don't want to frighten him. Understandable—he has been badly hurt and he is frightened of much, not least his own power, these visions he has been cursed with. But he is not frightened of you. More . . . he yearns to be close to you. I don't need a bond with the boy to see this, nor even a great deal of empathy. It's quite obvious. Whatever you've been holding back until now . . . don't."

Qui-Gon drew in a deep breath and let it out, puffing out his cheeks as it went. "It's just . . . too much is unsettled. Force knows that I _want_ to keep him, to be a father to him as you suggest. And Julune would be quite happy with it, too. We've already discussed it. But the Jedi still have a claim on him—or at least the Agri-Corps does. They want him to go back and try again once he's recovered."

Dooku frowned. "Try again?"

"Surely you are aware of how this works." Qui-Gon stared at the Jedi blankly. "Obi-Wan wasn't chosen as a Padawan, so he was sent here to Bandomeer to work with the Agri-Corps. He didn't do well with it. He was depressed and didn't eat, and his visions kept him from sleeping. Naturally he became ill."

The older man's frown deepened, even darkened. "Naturally," he echoed in a mutter. "His life was effectively ended at the tender age of thirteen. No wonder he was depressed."

"Twelve," Qui-Gon said absently, again watching Obi-Wan's still face, the gentle rise and fall of his breath, feeling the pulse of life. "He's still twelve years old. Won't be thirteen for a couple of weeks."

Energy seemed to crackle around Dooku, a storm of negative lightning, but he held back in respect for the sleeping boy. "Even more outrageous. They denied him even that slender chance."

"Perhaps they expected Knight Xanatos to take him—he accompanied the boy to Bandomeer, with the Jedi supply shuttle. They met some sort of adventure on the way, something with pirates. Obi-Wan hasn't told me the full story yet. But Xanatos still refused him."

"The more fool he."

Qui-Gon didn't argue. For a time they sat in silence, letting the Force settle around them, peace seeping into their bones. Qui-Gon considered moving the boy to the couch, but was afraid that even the slightest movement would wake him. He was aware that Dooku was thinking deeply, and did not interrupt.

At last Dooku shook himself out of his musing and met Qui-Gon's eyes again. "It's time for me to leave. I shouldn't have stayed so long."

He started to rise, and Qui-Gon felt a prick of urgency. "Wait . . . are you referring to this house, or Bandomeer?"

Dooku smiled, somewhat nostalgically, and sat back down. "I should have known I wouldn't be able to sneak away from you. Yes, I mean Bandomeer. I was due back at Coruscant today—if I don't contact the Temple soon, they'll assume something has gone wrong. It's better if I send the message from space."

"Surely they won't fault you for following the will of the Force?"

The Jedi shrugged, a bitter twist of a smile appearing on his lips. "You never know, these days. Some in the Order care more for schedules, for keeping the Senate satisfied, than they do for what they call 'whims of the unruly mind.'"

Qui-Gon shook his head. "I can see why you are unhappy with the current state of affairs."

"Indeed." A brief pause, then Dooku seemed to overcome some sort of inertia, plunging onward. "It was a pleasure to see you, Qui-Gon, if only for a short time. I hope all continues to go well with you."

"Thank you. And with you as well. Don't wait another ten years to contact me again."

"On that, I give you my word."

Dooku rose smoothly and fetched his cloak. Qui-Gon watched him so intently that for a moment he wasn't aware of the stirring against his shoulder, but then Obi-Wan raised his head, blinking, and started to struggle out of Qui-Gon's arm. "Wait . . ."

"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon gripped his elbow, feeling the weakness of sleep thrumming through the thin body. "What's wrong?"

"Just . . . a moment." Obi-Wan staggered to his feet, trying to slip away from Qui-Gon's hand, but the man didn't let him. He rose as well, maintaining his hold on the slender arm.

Dooku had paused to stare at them, eyebrows furrowed. Obi-Wan took a step closer to the man, looking earnestly up into his face. His voice was rough with sleep, but firm and strong, despite his youth. "I need . . . I need to talk to you. You have to promise me something."

"Must I?" Dooku said with faint surprise. He hesitated for a moment, then bent his proud head to look the child more fully in the eye. His voice was as gentle as Qui-Gon had ever heard it. "What is it, young one?"

"You have to . . . you have to swear . . . will you swear?" Uncertainty entered the young tone at the last, and Obi-Wan would have wavered without Qui-Gon's hand on his elbow.

Something unidentifiable passed through Dooku's dark eyes, so like the deep midnight of a desert planet, far from the brilliant stars of the Core. After a moment, he nodded, and Qui-Gon marveled that he would do this without even knowing what he was agreeing to. "Yes. I will swear."

"Swear to me . . . swear to Qui-Gon, to, to everything . . . that you will stay with the light. That you will not touch the dark. Do you swear?" Obi-Wan's trembling hands reached out as if to grab Dooku's tunic, but stopped a bare centimeter away from the dark fabric. It wasn't as if he was afraid to touch him, but more that he wanted Dooku to make the decision on his own, without further coercion. "Do you?"

"Yes." Dooku said gravely. "I swear. I swear it, child. I will not touch the dark."

"Oh. Good." Obi-Wan stepped back, and let Qui-Gon push him over to the couch and set him down. He blinked up at the man standing by the door, pale face both bewildered and relieved. It was if he hadn't known quite what he was doing, and now that it was over, he wondered what had happened. But the relief was brilliant, shining like those Core stars that had seemed so distant from the Jedi Master. "Good."

Dooku paused for a moment longer, his hand on the door. Then he nodded solemnly to Qui-Gon, and looked at the boy, including them both in his farewell. "May the Force be with you."

"And with you," Qui-Gon said softly, still feeling faintly shaken by what had just passed.

Dooku nodded once again, and departed.


	16. Not a Jedi

Obi-Wan seemed dazed. He looked at Qui-Gon as to the only steady point in a shifting world. The man felt the eyes on him after a moment, and turned from staring at the door to smile at the boy. "All right, Obi-Wan?"

The youngster blinked, then swallowed, swaying slightly even though he was sitting down. "Did . . . did I just do that? Did I just give an order to a _Jedi Master?"_

Qui-Gon chuckled gently. "Yes, you did. And he obeyed."

"Wow." Obi-Wan looked down, at a loss for words. He swayed again, very slowly and gently, like the frond of a plant growing beneath the sea moved by a current. Thin, shaking hands cupped around his temples as if to contain any stray thoughts that might escape. "Don't know where that came from."

"From the Force, perhaps?" Qui-Gon knelt by the couch on one knee, trying to look into the boy's face without intruding on his thoughts. He remembered something Dooku had said. _Destiny fairly clings to him. New paths are being laid and as quickly discarded with every word he speaks, every move he makes._

This marvelous child. With Dooku's words, Qui-Gon could see it for himself. Obi-Wan was especially open to the Force while asleep or in the moments just before waking, obviously, but at all times, he maintained an instinctive connection that most had to struggle for years to achieve.

And now Qui-Gon understood what he had sensed in the boy from the beginning. It wasn't that he was particularly powerful in the Force—watching Dooku work within the realm of mind and spirit had reminded him of what true power was—but where others _tried,_ Obi-Wan _did._ Without thinking, without struggling, Obi-Wan simply was, existing in the Force as a bird existed in the sky—because it could live nowhere else.

Again the boy swayed, and Qui-Gon reached out to steady him. "Perhaps you should go back to sleep," he suggested quietly. "This afternoon was a bit much for you, I think."

Obi-Wan grimaced. "I don't want t—to sleep." He belied himself by burying a yawn in the middle of his words. "Sleep too much."

Qui-Gon smiled. "No, it would appear that you don't sleep enough." When the boy did not respond, he frowned lightly. "What's wrong?"

Obi-Wan shot a guilty glance toward him, and looked away. But Qui-Gon noticed his hand push against the couch cushion beside his thigh, as if testing it. He grinned again.

"Tired of sleeping on the couch? I know it's lumpy. And you've certainly spent a lot of time on it these past few days. I would certainly be sick of it."

The boy nodded reluctantly. "I . . . I know I shouldn't let it bother me . . ."

"No worries. Let's just try something else, shall we?" Qui-Gon hesitated for a bare second, but again, Dooku's words came back to him. _Don't hold back._

Without another thought, he scooped the boy smoothly up in his arms and sat on the couch, cradling him to his chest. "Is this more comfortable?"

When Obi-Wan stiffened, though, he regretted his impetuous decision. "I'm sorry. I'm making you uncomfortable, aren't I?" He began to shift his arms to set the child down, but his muscles barely had time to twitch before Obi-Wan protested.

"No, no," the boy said meekly. He immediately relaxed, as if in contrition, and leaned his head more heavily against Qui-Gon's chest. His fingers rose of their own volition to twine in the man's tunic, preventing him from taking back his hasty action. "Not uncomfortable. Just . . . surprised, a little." The words came slowly and haltingly, as if he didn't particularly want to say them, but they managed to escape against his will, struggling free of the bars of his lips in unsteady bursts. "I've never . . . I haven't . . . it's only that . . . I'm not . . . not a little child."

"Ah. I see." Qui-Gon folded his arms a bit more closely around the chilled figure and rested his chin on the unruly shock of reddish hair. "You may not be a little child anymore—though you will always be 'little one' to me, I'm afraid—but you are still a child. Aren't you?"

"Well . . . I suppose. It's only . . . I never really was. I don't think." Obi-Wan released a tiny grunt of frustration. "I don't know how to say it."

Qui-Gon was surprised to hear sadness in his voice. "Don't the Jedi allow their young ones to be children? Or are you taught early that you must act with calm and dignity, like miniature adults? Never laughing at your friends' childish jokes, never crying when you fall and scrape a knee? 'There is no passion, there is serenity?'" He drew in a small breath as a new insight struck his eyes with the pain of a beam of white light after walking in darkness. "Or was it something you imposed on yourself? To never be a child, to always act like a Jedi?"

A muffled sound of distress told him that he had seen well, and correctly. The sadness in Qui-Gon deepened, the heaviness of a gray afternoon drawing on to a thunder-clouded night. "My poor little one. But I might as well tell you now, just so it's clear between us—I am not a Jedi. And if you don't mind, I'll treat you as the child you are."

Again the stifled half-gasp, half-whimper from the boy. Qui-Gon realized distantly that the small fingers were digging into his flesh through the thick fabric of his tunic. "Obi-Wan?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

"Qu—" Obi-Wan's voice was so thick that he choked on it, unable to continue.

Worried now, Qui-Gon drew back slightly, just enough to reach out and tip that trembling chin up so he could look into the blue-gray eyes, now swimming with moisture. "What is it?"

Obi-Wan gasped for breath. "I just . . . I just realized. I'm not a Jedi, either."

Qui-Gon's throat seized up, disallowing speech. "Oh," he whispered, and folded the child into his embrace again, as tightly as he dared. Surely this fragile being would break if he pressed too hard.

Obi-Wan clung to him in unabashed grief, allowing himself to weep after what had to be months and years of abstinence. "I wanted . . . I wanted to be. I tried so hard. To be a Jedi. To help save the galaxy. But I didn't _do._ I didn't . . . succeed. I failed. I failed. It was the only thing I ever wanted . . . needed . . . worked for . . . and I couldn't. I can't. Can't be . . . a Jedi. I'm not a Jedi. I'm . . ." At last the sobs that had been interrupting his whispered speech at intervals took over completely, and all he could do was cry.

"You are Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon murmured, rocking the boy gently, reflexively, almost unaware of what he was doing and saying. Everything within him, everything that he was and had, was focused on the suffering child in his arms. "You are Obi-Wan Kenobi. That's who you are. You still shine with the Light, even if you aren't a Jedi. You will still help to save the galaxy, because you cannot do otherwise. It's just who are. You are my Obi-Wan."

But he was sorrowfully aware that this was not enough to replace this lost dream, this concentrated, pin-point focus of an entire life up to this moment. How he wished that it could be.

"Please don't send me back to the Agri-Corps," Obi-Wan begged, his voice cracking on every other word. "I don't want to go back. Everyone there used to be Jedi. I don't want . . . don't want . . . Please, Qui-Gon, don't make me go back. I don't want to go back."

Qui-Gon felt tears stinging his eyes, and blinked ineffectively. He wanted to promise that that would never happen. But he had already made so many promises to this child, and he was deathly afraid that he wouldn't be able to keep them. How dare he make another? "I don't want you to go back, either," he said instead, his voice rough and broken.

Obi-Wan accepted that as a vow, though, and the tension that had tightened his narrow frame leaked gradually away. Still he wept, not yet done releasing all the grief he'd trapped behind his eyes, afraid to let it see the light. Harsh sobs ripped at his throat, raw and unrestrained, a sound that was as ugly as the pain it expressed. Qui-Gon simply held him close and let him cry, now and then murmuring soft encouragement that he wasn't sure Obi-Wan even heard.

The boy was still weeping when Julune came home, though by that time he had settled to silent tears, the occasional rough sob jerking the body that now lay limp in Qui-Gon's steady arms. The woman stepped quietly to the couch, her eyes as full of sorrow as Qui-Gon supposed his own were, and sat gingerly on the cushion beside him, leaning down to look into the reddened, tear-streaked face.

"He's asleep," she murmured, straightening slightly to look into her husband's eyes. Her gaze darted with questions, but she restrained them to let him speak.

Asleep? Qui-Gon blinked. A quick inward glance at the half-finished bond confirmed her words. The boy had been crying for over an hour, and now it continued as he slept. Force, it must have been killing him, to keep so much bottled up inside.

"He doesn't want to go back to the Agri-Corps," Qui-Gon said quietly. "And I don't want him to go."

Julune nodded easily. "We'll comm Heim Shilbey and work something out."

He tilted his head slightly, feeling his eyebrows wrinkle together. Despite his words to Dooku, he and Julune had never discussed this in so many words. "Are you sure? You realize what I'm asking for? I don't want him anywhere else. Ever."

"I understand," Julune said softly, leaning in to kiss the tears off his cheek. He hadn't realized any had fallen. "Our house on Thyferra is ready for a family. It's been ready for years. We should fill it."

Qui-Gon blinked back fresh liquid. Whatever had he done to deserve this woman? "Love you," he murmured, his heart too full to say all that was in it.

"More than life," she murmured back, leaning in to kiss his other cheek, the one she had neglected the night before.

And that was all the apology either needed. The walls between them were gone, crumbled to dust.

Qui-Gon realized with a slight shock that he was looking forward to their departure from Bandomeer for the first time since he had met this mysterious boy. The house on Thyferra was waiting.


	17. Remnants

Obi-Wan's heavy eyelids lifted slowly. They were gritty and itchy, as if they'd been rubbed with sand, and his face felt swollen, too warm, especially the area around his eyes. His head and throat ached, as did the inner passages of his nose, and he felt sticky and spent, his mouth dry and yearning for moisture, throat clogged with mucus. Force, what had happened that left him feeling so utterly worn out? He couldn't remember a more uncomfortable waking.

Yet in another way, he couldn't remember a time that he'd felt more comfortable, more at peace. He was warm, secure, and for the first time in what had to be forever, there was no sense of pressure lurking in his chest. Nothing was hiding from his surface thoughts like a leviathan in the deeps. Everything was in the open now, and though it surrounded him in a mist of sadness and loss, it didn't burden him anymore, didn't weight him to the floor and suffocate him in its thick folds.

The warmth about him shifted slightly. "Obi-Wan?" The voice held the same warmth, rumbling in his ear, enveloping him in its gentle regard.

Obi-Wan's head felt too heavy to lift, so he just nestled it a little more firmly against the soft fabric that caressed his cheek. "'M all right," he murmured, his voice hoarse and dry.

"Supper will be ready soon. Are you hungry?"

"Mm. A little." It wasn't exactly a lie. He felt no desire for food, no, he never did anymore, but there was a faint, teasing tense that he might be hungry sometime soon, in a not-too-distant future that was unclouded and free. Almost he felt that he could reach out and touch that time, it had been brought so near to him, this after his age-long belief that nothing would ever change, that he would always be lost and abandoned in the barrens.

Gradually Obi-Wan became a little more aware of his surroundings. His arms were immobile, folded between his body and something much larger and more solid, but he did not feel trapped. Rhythmic puffs of air, slow and gentle, stirred in his air. The warmth that surrounded him had a shape. And it had a name.

"Qui-Gon?" He whispered the name in wonder, soft and amazed. Had he ever been held like this before, supported with such patient understanding and care? He couldn't remember. Who was this man, to take him in so completely on the slender acquaintance of two and a half days, to encompass him in the safety and warmth of a home?

Large, blunt fingers carded through his hair, leaving his scalp tingling. "I'm here, little one. How are you feeling?"

Obi-Wan had to think about that one awhile. "There . . . there's something we need to do. We need to finish."

Qui-Gon's rich voice was spiced with amusement. "I think we've accomplished quite a bit, myself."

The boy smiled slowly, and the movement didn't feel quite as strange as it had earlier today, the stretching of long-unused muscles not quite as foreign and disconcerting. "Yes. We did." He tipped his head upward slightly, just enough to catch a corner of deep, sparkling blue. "I was thinking of the bond, actually."

The large chest beneath his cheek stilled for a moment, as if Qui-Gon had forgotten to breathe. "Are you certain?" he murmured, barely loud enough for the words to cross the scant distance separating mouth from ear. "Once we do this, turning back will be very painful and difficult."

"I don't plan to turn back." Obi-Wan shook his head slightly, then let it rest as he had before. "I'm ready."

He felt a kiss on his forehead, almost rough in its fervency, and the arms about him tightened. "As you wish, my Obi-Wan."

And together they fell back into their connection, and together they completed the anchoring that bound them together with cords that could not be broken.

X

That night Obi-Wan slept the sleep of the just, and when the dreams came, Qui-Gon was beside him, even though he slept on in the room down the hall. Together they tried to make sense of them, and when it became too much, Qui-Gon sheltered Obi-Wan and drew him away, and the images could not follow. They were insubstantial wisps, scarves of flimsy cloth to be swept aside with the wave a hand. Qui-Gon suspected that this could not last, and the Force would have its way, would reveal what must be seen until the necessary action was taken. But for now, the respite was enough.

X

"Here, let's see this one." Julune held the tunic up to Obi-Wan's chest, and pulled the sleeve along his outstretched arm. She sighed. "No, this one is too small, too. Didn't they even give you decent clothes before you left?"

"You still haven't told me how you got hold of all my clothes," Obi-Wan said in mild confusion, watching her fold up the garment and place it on the small stack.

"Heim Shilbey came by last night. We didn't think it worthwhile to wake you." Julune inspected one of his stockings, frowning at her finger when it poked through a hole in the toe.

"But . . . why?" Obi-Wan surveyed the small pile of clothing with a wrinkled brow. "This is everything I own. And why would he stop by in the first place?"

"Everything? Little enough to show for twelve years," Julune muttered. "Come, child, it's been four days. You can't keep wearing Qui-Gon's clothes—they make you look like a waif. And you summarily rejected mine. Not that they fit you much better."

Faint color stained the youngster's cheeks. "I'm sorry. They're just . . . too . . ."

"Pink? Soft? Strangely proportioned?" Julune smiled, brushing her fingers over his heated cheek. "No worries. I understand. Now!" She shook out a cream-colored tunic. "This is a bit worn, but it will do for a trip to the market."

Obi-Wan slipped out of Qui-Gon's tunic and drew his own over his head. True, it was a bit short, but it felt nice to be back in the remnants of his old life, even though he knew he could never go back. "Market? We're going to market?"

"That's right."

"I've never been to a market before." Obi-Wan paused with his hand on his cloth belt, gaze far away, then hastily finished wrapping it around himself. "And you aren't going to work today?"

Julune smiled softly, watching the bright young eyes, so eager, delighted with this simple treat. Sometimes this boy seemed so worn and aged by burdens too large for him that she forgot how young he was, and how sheltered his life before must have been. She shook her head slightly, remembering his question. "No, no work. It's my day off."

Obi-Wan gaped briefly. "You get days off?"

Qui-Gon chuckled as he exited the kitchen, done cleaning up from breakfast. "I believe it's a Corellian invention called 'end-week,' or something like that. Very popular all over the galaxy."

"Oh." The boy's eyes were very wide and very blue.

Julune laughed merrily and tousled the reddish-sandy hair, already mussed from hasty dressing. "You'll like the market, Obi-Wan."

"Absolutely." Qui-Gon did his best to ruffle the boy's hair even more. "Why don't you just make a quick visit to the 'fresher and straighten up?"

"All right." A last, brilliant smile, and Obi-Wan disappeared into the little room.

The Jinns watched him go. "I noticed how you side-stepped his questions about Heim's visit," Qui-Gon said quietly, wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulders.

She sighed and snuggled her head against his shoulder. "I don't want to get his hopes up and then have to crush them. That would be cruel. Shilbey said that there would be a lot of details to take care of."

"It is a big step," Qui-Gon agreed, unconsciously rubbing his bristly jaw against her hair. "But I think we may need to say something to him. He needs to agree to it, too."

"He already said that he didn't want to go back. And he's—what is it—connected to you. Where else would he go?"

"I know. But . . . he said that in a moment of emotion. And if there's one thing in that boy's character, it's an overwhelming devotion to duty. What would he say now?"

"Qui-Gon . . ." Julune drew back slightly to look up into his eyes. "Are you doubting Obi-Wan, or doubting yourself?"

Qui-Gon looked abashed. "Neither."

She snorted and settled her head back against his shoulder. "You're a terrible liar, dearheart."

"Well . . . let's keep our options open."

"Yes. And we probably should wait until we're certain the Agri-Corps will let him go before we say anything. For now . . . for now, at least, he's happy."

"The happiest I've ever seen him."

Obi-Wan emerged from the refresher, a small smile teasing at his lips, hair slightly damp and freshly combed. "How's that?"

"Very nice," Julune said warmly, reaching out to straighten the shoulders of his tunic and brush away some imaginary dust. "You have such a lovely, charming smile, Obi-Wan Bandor won't know what hit it."

Obi-Wan raised a hand as if to hide his new blush, but the smile peeked around his fingers, and a small, childlike giggle bubbled briefly in the air before fading away. Julune's heart thrilled at the sound, and by the strength of Qui-Gon's grip around her shoulders, he was as deeply affected. It must have been the first time he heard it, too.

"Oh, be still my heart!" Julune half-feigned a girlish swoon, pressing the back of her hand against her forehead. "Oh, you are just too much for me, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

The giggle returned, stronger, disbelieving. "You're teasing me."

Julune sobered and lowered her hand. "Never. I could never tease such a handsome young man."

The blue-green eyes widened. "Now you're _really_ teasing."

Julune opened her mouth to protest again, but Qui-Gon brought his lips close to her ear. "You might as well surrender now. He simply doesn't believe it. Too humble."

She pouted, folding her arms across her chest. "Too humble to believe the truth? That's taking it a bit too far, don't you think?"

Qui-Gon chuckled, pressed her close in a brief, tight hug. "Come along, now. All the best merchandise will be sold before we get there if we don't leave soon."

He drew away slightly, still keeping an arm about her, and placed his free hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder. "Off we go now. Time for a new adventure."

And as they stepped out of the door onto the dirty, slightly-oily street under the bright morning sun, Julune decided that this was true. They were starting a journey together. She only hoped that it would be long, and full of interesting sights and side-trails, and that it would be frequently brightened by soft, sparkling laughter.


	18. All Comes Down

It was in the market that Qui-Gon first believed that they could make this work, that they could form a true family from these completely disparate parts—a scientist, a wanderer, and a former Jedi. He watched Julune's delight as she ferried Obi-Wan through the vendors and stalls, the gentleness of her hand as it lay against the nape of the boy's neck, both protecting and guiding. Whether or not Dooku was correct in his assessment that Qui-Gon was already a good father, it could not be denied that Julune was already a marvelous mother to this twice-orphaned child.

It also amused Qui-Gon to witness Obi-Wan's shock and dawning horror when it became clear that Julune had brought him to the clothing vendor in order to buy "decent" clothes for him. A long argument ensued, which Julune won, mainly by appealing to Qui-Gon for support and promising that it would only be a couple of sturdy tunics, and perhaps a few stockings. Obi-Wan acquiesced with bad grace, and the Jinns got to see another new expression from their charge. He truly had very forbidding scowl, for such a soft-faced, sweet-voiced youngster.

But it didn't take long to tease Obi-Wan out of his ill humor, even though the "couple of tunics and a few stockings" turned to out to include trousers, undergarments, and a new belt. Simply walking away from the clothes vendor into the larger market was enough to turn the boy into little more than an open mouth and a pair of wide, sparkling eyes. And, remarkably, Qui-Gon also was able to see the market through fresh eyes, with Obi-Wan's wonder and timidity and hidden excitement glittering in a corner of his mind that was now well-traveled.

On other Bandor market days, Qui-Gon had seen only the shabbiness, the dull, fraying awnings and misshapen produce, the weary-eyed Meerians hurrying to complete their weekly shopping so they could escape the sodden gray sky. But Obi-Wan saw the array of colors, the strangeness and variety of the fruits and vegetables, the energy and bustle of the market-goers. Qui-Gon looked forward to taking the boy to better markets and fairs, on Thyferra, Corellia, Coruscant, Sylelius, Alderaan.

Almost Qui-Gon shook his head at that, at his own foolishness. Already he was making plans for future excursions with Obi-Wan, and he didn't even know yet . . . But he would not think of that. He chose to enjoy the moment.

Obi-Wan looked everywhere, trying to see everything at once, his head swiveling constantly to take it all in. He was a bit surprised and intimidated by the constant yelling of the vendors, though.

"Buy a pot! You need a pot! Everybody needs a pot!"

"Muja fruit! Snowberries! Nemana sweets!"

"Hot roasted velinuts! So delicious they melt on the tongue! Here, little one, you must want some nuts!"

A folded flimsy full of nuts was thrust toward Obi-Wan's face, and he jerked back and stepped closer to Qui-Gon, all but hiding behind his larger frame. The man sensed that he was dismayed by the use of Qui-Gon's special name for him by this pushy stranger. He placed a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled at the vendor.

"Not today. Fortune smile on you, friend."

The Meerian grinned back, not at all put off. Practically all the citizens of Bandomeer knew who Qui-Gon Jinn was by now, at least by reputation.

In the end, he just bought the flimsy of velinuts. It was the easiest way to get out of it. And Obi-Wan did enjoy them, mostly, once he figured out that the shells should be removed first. Julune simply rolled her eyes and sighed, by now accustomed to her husband's inability to turn down anyone—or anything—who looked up at him with big, hopeful eyes.

The best part of the entire trip, in Qui-Gon's opinion, was the walk back. By the time they left the market, Obi-Wan was already weaving on his feet, still weakened by his fever and his months of little food and less sleep. He was so tired, in fact, that it took very little arguing before he agreed to let Qui-Gon carry him pick-a-back. Julune gathered the bundles, and Qui-Gon hoisted the boy behind him, feeling the slender arms circle his neck from behind, the soft weight settling against his back and forearms.

Long before they reached their home street, Obi-Wan was asleep, his arms loose and relaxed, small face resting against the back of Qui-Gon's neck as gentle breaths tickled through his hair. It was this sensation, this bit of memory, that Qui-Gon cherished for weeks and months afterward, removing it from the box of his mind to turn it over in mental hands, enjoying every contour, watching it shine in the light. It was the way a widow would admire her jewelry on gray afternoons, remembering the one who gave it, living again the time when she was young and beautiful, and this necklace or that pendant adorned more than a dusty wooden chest.

X

"Is this right?"

Qui-Gon stepped away from the heating surface to inspect Obi-Wan's work. The boy had insisted on helping, but agreed to sit at the table while Qui-Gon worked in the rest of the kitchen. He at least seemed gratified that the man trusted him to use a knife.

The jili root in Obi-Wan's hand filled the air around them with its sharp, eye-opening scent. Qui-Gon bent down to inspect it, reflexively brushing his hand over the boy's head. He would need a haircut soon, but Qui-Gon rather liked having this much to run his fingers through, so he didn't mention it yet. Just as he didn't yet mention another matter.

"Very good, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, gently fingering the seasoning root, the thick skin the boy had peeled off it. "Cut just a bit deeper, though. See how fibrous the jili is just under the skin? It will jam the food chopper if it isn't cut off. Leave just the pale center of the root, so it looks like this." He ran a fingernail over a strip of whitish vegetable flesh, where the knife had cut to sufficient depth.

"All right." Obi-Wan flashed a quick, tiny smile, then bent again to his task. A time or two during their first few days Obi-Wan had used the word "sir," but Qui-Gon had quickly trained him out of that little habit.

Qui-Gon briskly ruffled his hair, leaving it in wild disarray, and stepped back to stir the white peppers sizzling in oil on the heating coil.

"Jili root smells really good," Obi-Wan said conversationally. "I bet it would make good tea."

"It does make good tea. Called marjili. Julune loves it—it's a little sweet for my taste, though." Qui-Gon paused. "Wait. You actually like tea? You didn't drink it earlier."

"When? With Master Shilbey and Nira?" Obi-Wan shrugged. "I still felt sick then. And it smelled much too strong for me."

"Hmm. I bet you'd like marjili with cinna."

"Cinna? As in cinna sweets? I love cinna!"

Qui-Gon chuckled to himself, very quietly so as not to offend. _The boy has a sweet tooth._ He sobered suddenly. _Well, and why not? He's twelve years old. He's still a child._

And Qui-Gon was abruptly, inexplicably happy, all but overflowing with pure delight. Obi-Wan was still a child. His trust had been broken and his faith had been shaken, years had been taken from him with little or no return, and he had been thrust out of his home without protection and battered by the storms of the galaxy, but all was not lost. He was still a child. Qui-Gon and his wife still had a chance to give back a portion of what had been stolen from him.

"Next time we go to market, we'll buy some marjili with cinna tea," he promised.

There he went again, making plans for the future when it was still in question. But things should be decided soon, after all. They had gotten the comm from Heim Shilbey last night. He only needed three signatures now—his, Julune's, and Obi-Wan's. Qui-Gon just needed to find a way to say it to the boy . . . .

It shouldn't be so difficult. Qui-Gon had always been able to strike up conversations with sentients of any species, on any subject. But somehow he could not bring himself to broach this one topic to a twelve-year-old boy.

Obi-Wan had already given his life once—completely, trustingly, without question—and it had been thrown back in his face. How could Qui-Gon ask him to sign it away a second time?

Qui-Gon took the peeled jili root from the boy's hand as he finished and placed it in the food chopper, then went to the cooling box to fetch the nerf steaks. Obi-Wan watched in fascination—and something else—as the raw, red slabs struck the cutting board in front of him with a wet-sounding _plop._ "You mean it isn't _cooked_ yet?"

"Well, no, Obi-Wan. That's what we're doing right now. Cooking one of Julune's favorite dinners."

"Oh." The boy's voice was very small and young.

"You were with us when we bought this in the market two days ago. Don't you remember?"

"I was almost asleep already by that time." The young voice was slightly defensive.

Qui-Gon hesitated. "Do the Jedi have rules about eating meat? Does it bother you?"

"No, no." Obi-Wan glanced up, affording him a glimpse of bright blue-green, and offered a sideways smile. "I've just never seen it while it was still so . . . red. And wet." He poked it with his paring knife. "And squishy."

Qui-Gon chuckled. "It gets worse. This is partly frozen, because it's easier to cut that way." He gently took the knife from Obi-Wan's hand and replaced it with a serrated one. "Cut the strips as thinly as you can. I'll get another knife and help you."

Before he could open the drawer, though, the chime for the front door began to sound. Qui-Gon stopped with his hand in midair, and shifted his momentum to turn down the heat under the peppers. Somehow he sensed that this was not going to be a short visit. He passed a reassuring hand over Obi-Wan's shoulder as he left the kitchen, but he could feel the boy's worried gaze follow him as he crossed the small common room to the front door.

He paused again with his hand reaching toward the door, his limb feeling suddenly weighted down with dread. Something disturbing was on the other side—not evil, not dangerous, perhaps, for the warning of the Force seemed chaotic and confused—but something that would disrupt the peace they had found. Qui-Gon didn't want to open the door. Let their visitor think that no one was home, and leave them alone.

But in the end, his natural hospitality started his hand moving again. He had never shut anyone out before. He could not deny a life of welcoming and openness.

The man at the door had a thick brown beard and calm eyes. Qui-Gon's eyes were immediately drawn to the cream-colored tunic and the brown robe, though, and then he saw the metal cylinder at his waist.

A Jedi.

Another Jedi had come to visit them.

Qui-Gon could not speak.

"Greetings, Qui-Gon Jinn." The Jedi's voice was smooth and calming. "I am Knight Andros Martin. I come on the behalf of a good friend of mine, who is occupied elsewhere. Otherwise he would be here to make his petition in person."

"Xanatos," Qui-Gon murmured.

Andros Martin tipped his head slightly, not in the least surprised. "Yes. He said that he sensed latent Force abilities in you. Perhaps you have already divined my purpose for coming to you?"

Qui-Gon swallowed thickly. The world seemed to reel. "I . . . I hope not."

"Knight Xanatos came to understand that he had made a mistake, and wishes to rectify it before it's too late. I've come to ask Obi-Wan Kenobi if he still desires to be a Padawan."


	19. Claws Unsheathed

Julune hummed a little tune as she swiped her keycard at the door to their tiny, one-bedroom housing facility. The research today had progressed smoothly—at this rate all the analysis would be done before the move to Thyferra. Even better, today Qui-Gon had no doubt spoken to Obi-Wan, and everything would be settled in that arena, too. Everything was falling together.

She was pleasantly surprised to find Obi-Wan waiting to greet her at the door. His face was still, almost expressionless, as was his wont. But she was beginning to learn how to read him. His mere presence spoke volumes.

"Why, hello, sweetheart! How was your day? Oh, you're wearing your new blue tunic. Very nice. Brings out your eyes. Do I smell jili and nerf stir-fry?"

It was an even bigger surprise, but still a pleasant one, when the boy threw his arms around her waist, hiding his face against her shoulder. "'M glad to see you, Julune."

The woman was a bit startled by this action, as well as the mumbled confession, but she quickly hugged him back, instinctively ducking her head to rest against his messy locks. Obi-Wan had never been wary of her, exactly, but neither had he ever sought any kind of contact with her. As much as she enjoyed it, she was afraid to imagine what had happened to cause this abrupt change. Some kind of argument with Qui-Gon, perhaps? It didn't make any sense.

"What happened?" Julune asked, carefully stroking one hand over his narrow back.

"Got some news today," Obi-Wan half-whispered. "The Jedi want me back. Why would they want me back now? I don't understand."

Julune's heart began to drop like a pebble in a bowl of syrup. It was a dreadful sensation, and her happiness and contentment vanished in a puff of smoke, cackling maniacally at her vain attempt to grab them back. She lifted her eyes, though her chin remained pressed against that silky reddish hair, and finally noticed the brown-robed stranger who sat on her couch, in her common room, holding one of her teacups and watching her with cool, calm brown eyes. Qui-Gon stood in the doorway to the kitchen, still holding a spatula, misery in every line of his face and expression—though Julune was aware that she was probably the only one who could see it.

It was then she realized that Obi-Wan was shaking gently, his entire too-thin body possessed by tremors that reminded her unpleasantly of the terrible fever chills that had taken him not so very long ago. And suddenly there was no more room in her heart for dread or uncertainty, for it was entirely filled with rage.

Obi-Wan raised his head suddenly, his eyes wide, and stepped back slightly. She circled his shoulders with one strong arm, intent on keeping him close. But her attention was fixed on the intruder, the interloper, the thief who had stolen their peace.

"You want him back?" she asked the Jedi, very quietly and very clearly. He continued to stare at her, completely calm, and she repeated the question in a snap of fire. "You want him back? Well, you can't have him! You forfeited that claim when you abandoned this wonderful child to be torn apart by the malia!"

All three males opened their mouths as if to respond, but Julune was not to be forestalled. She wrapped her other arm around Obi-Wan's chest and pressed him back against her, distantly aware that she was now shaking, too. "You Jedi!" she spat. "You're supposed to be a beacon of light and compassion in the galaxy, but you can't take care of the most vulnerable in your own _Temple!_ This child was suffering daily agony from uncontrollable visions that robbed him of sleep and appetite, and no one saw! How could that be? Someone _must_ have seen. You are so noble and farsighted."

Her voice oozed sarcasm, dark and bitter. "So committed to peace and order, to the preservation of the Republic. So blind! Instead of someone taking Obi-Wan under a wing, teaching him how to understand and control his gifts, his power, in your great wisdom you decided that he was unworthy of a place among you! A child, unworthy!" She snorted in disgust. "How preposterous! Children don't have to prove their worth! They are precious for the fact of their existence!"

Obi-Wan shifted slightly, but Julune simply held him a little tighter and continued. Every word of this was true, and it was time someone said it. "And because of this grandly compassionate, wise decision, Obi-Wan almost died. He _would_ have died if my husband had not somehow formed a bond with him. The galaxy has not treated him kindly, to say the least. And though he narrowly escaped kidnapping and death of exposure in the wasteland, he still fell seriously ill and suffered greatly in fever. Even now he tires easily, and has to fight nausea at every meal, though he's recovering.

"Your gross negligence almost killed this boy, and the wounds you have left will be slow in mending. And now you come back, so casually, so confidently, and say you want him after all?" Julune shook her head firmly, her mouth pressed in a grim line. "What conceit. No. I won't make this easy for you. We care for Obi-Wan Kenobi. We love him, we value him, and we want to keep him. You. Can't. Have. Him."

The room felt strangely empty when she finished her rant, all energy drained from the very air. But Julune held herself taut, prepared to take whatever measures were necessary to protect her Obi-Wan.

The Jedi stood slowly, carefully set the teacup on an end table, and swept into a low, deep bow. He straightened and looked back into her eyes, his gaze still maddeningly calm. "Mistress, I apologize. I did not come to threaten you, but to make amends, and to provide an opportunity. You're right. Obi-Wan Kenobi has been neglected and overlooked, and I can cite only ignorance as an explanation. It is no excuse. On the behalf of the Jedi Order, I offer our deepest regrets."

His deep brown gaze switched to the boy. "It was not my intention to cause you further pain with this visit. I am sorry." He bowed again, his sleeves brushing the floor. "If you choose to come with me now, we will do everything in our power to set this right. You will be taught to understand and control your visions, and you will have your chance to earn a place in the Order as a Jedi Knight."

Obi-Wan went very, very still. He seemed scarcely to breathe. Julune, on the other hand, was still quivering with indignation.

"Get out of my house."

The Jedi hesitated. "Mistress—"

"Get _out_ of my _house!"_

He bobbed one more bow. "As you wish." His eyes flicked to the boy. "Please consider what I have said."

With a haste that was almost unbecoming for a calm, staid Knight of the Order, he departed.

X

In the aftermath, Qui-Gon let out a gasping little chuckle. "Well. That was . . . hrm." He cleared his throat and fell silent. It felt like everything had already been said, and in the wake of that storm, only thick stillness was allowed, the air unmoving, rain still dripping from the trees.

Obi-Wan shook his head slightly, as if coming out of a trance, and gently disengaged himself from Julune's grip to look up to her face. She smiled gently, all of her anger immediately hidden away, and stroked her fingers over his cheek, reading the question in his eyes. "Yes, Obi-Wan. I meant everything I said."

He nodded, looking away. "I . . . I need . . . just for a while . . . May I go out to the garden?"

"Of course," Qui-Gon said instantly, as if afraid to let Julune speak. "I'll call you when supper's ready."

They watched him make his way into the kitchen and out the door, and Julune turned to her husband. "It's not fair!" she hissed fiercely. "Why now? He was settling in and getting better! He was happy! This is going to . . ." Her throat closed up and she could not speak. She didn't want to say what she was afraid this was going to do to Obi-Wan, to them.

"Oh, darling, I know, I know." Qui-Gon was at her side in two steps, wrapping her in his warm embrace, the spatula falling forgotten to the floor. "But this is Obi-Wan's choice. We can't make it for him. Please, dearheart, set your desires aside and consider what's best for him."

"I can't!" she half-wailed, half-sobbed, angry tears erupting in her eyes. "Doesn't he know that we want to adopt him, that all we need is his signature to make it so? We were going to be a family! He was going to be my son, our son! I can't set that aside!"

Qui-Gon made a half-hearted shushing noise, reaching up to wipe her tears with shaking fingers. "I-I know. But you have to, Julune. Please. Don't make this harder for him than it already is. I haven't told him about the adoption documents, but he knows that we love him and want him, and that will tear him apart as it is. Let's not make it any harder for him by imposing our own wants on him. He can't bear any more pressure."

"This is going to hurt him," Julune whispered. "It's going to hurt us. Even if he chooses to stay, it won't be the same. Because he'll know that he could have been a knight, could have followed his dream. It won't be the same. How can we live with this?"

"I don't know. I don't know. But we have to." Qui-Gon took a deep breath, then seemed to shake himself, and his voice took on a wry tone. "You really ripped into that knight. And it wasn't even he who wanted Obi-Wan for his apprentice. Knight Xanatos sent him as proxy."

Julune shuddered with disgust. "Oh! How could that . . . that Jedi Knight, Xana-what? How could he send another in his place? And I thought that one was conceited! I thought your old friend was too much! I didn't know the half."

"Knight Martin explained that Xanatos is busy on a war-torn planet out on the Rim, trying to make peace, and couldn't come. But he knew that Obi-Wan would be thirteen soon, and he had to take him as Padawan before that day. So Andros Martin came in his stead. He seems a decent fellow."

Julune shook her head convulsively. "It doesn't matter. I don't care who he is, I don't care what he's really like. I wish he had never come to Bandomeer."

Qui-Gon did not argue, just held her a little tighter. And in this case, silence spoke louder than words.

They stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, until Qui-Gon remembered the stir-fry and went back to check it just before it began to burn. Normally Julune looked forward to this meal, and enjoyed it with all the pleasure that was in her. But today she was sure that it would turn to ashes in her mouth.

X

Obi-Wan lay on his flat rock in the middle of the garden, staring up at the sky, watching it fade from blue to indigo, from gray to black. He knew what he had to do. The Force was chaotic and confused, swirling about him in shades of gray. His emotions were too unsettled for him to meditate effectively. But for once he knew the course he had to take despite that. It was the only thing that made sense.

But he didn't want it. He didn't want it at all.


	20. Unwoven Threads

Supper was eaten in near silence. Obi-Wan kept his eyes on his plate, steadily eating his way through the savory meat and peppers. It was delicious, of course, but he barely tasted it. If only this was another day—Julune and Qui-Gon would be chatting about her job, and teasing each other about who was the better cook, and perhaps he would even find the courage to join in the bantering and insist that it was actually his perfect preparation of the jili that made this meal so unutterably tasty—but it wasn't another day. It was today, and everything was gone, and the two people who had come to mean more to him than any other adults in his life were silent, the air strained and heavy between them.

The patch of clear water in the polluted pool was that Obi-Wan actually enjoyed the food, and had had to push aside only a slight twinge of nausea at the beginning. He was getting better. Another day or two and he would have been strong enough to go back to the Agri-Corps. So what was he missing, then? Another twenty-six hours of freedom? Not worth so much heartache, was it?

He could not believe it.

He knew he was just trying to fool himself. He had heard the sincerity in Julune's words, and felt the surge of emotion from Qui-Gon, fiercely sorrowful. They wanted to keep him. They really did. Not because he had potential to be a great Jedi, not because he had an unknown power or special gifts and talents or anything like that. Just . . . because. Because he was Obi-Wan, and both Qui-Gon and Julune had begun to think of him as _their_ Obi-Wan. Because threads had woven between them and drawn them close, knitting them into a whole that was greater than its parts.

And now all the threads had to be severed. It would not be clean, and it would not be painless. The universe was cruel that way, Obi-Wan supposed. Not that he had really expected it to be otherwise.

At last Obi-Wan pushed his plate back, only a few strips of nerf steak still laying neglected in a corner, and raised his eyes. Qui-Gon and Julune immediately paused in mid-movement, utensils held poised in the air, and met his gaze with something that looked terribly like dread. Obi-Wan winced, sorry beyond words to know that he was causing them pain. Such an evil, ungrateful return for the immense kindness they had shown him. But he could not do otherwise.

He opened his mouth and said the words that sealed their fates in frozen stone.

"I have to go."

Julune made a small sound of distress, but stilled herself at Qui-Gon's sharp hand signal. Neither pair of eyes, dark brown and deep blue, wavered from Obi-Wan for the smallest moment. "Why do you say that?" the man asked gently. He didn't have to ask what Obi-Wan was referring to. They all knew. "Why do you feel that you must go? Do you feel obligated to the Jedi because you have lived among them all your life? Do you think that you have nowhere else to go?"

Obi-Wan shook his head, his shoulders hunching slightly. "No. No, that's not why at all. I know . . . I know that you . . ." He had to swallow thickly to get out the last part, feeling small and beleaguered under their unwavering regard. ". . . that you want me to stay."

"Then why . . .?" Julune shook herself suddenly, staring away to the wall, as if it held the answers to all the questions behind its obdurate blankness. "No. Let's . . . let's straighten up the kitchen, and talk in the common room."

The menfolk leaped to agree, glad for any excuse to delay the words that had to be spoken. For a few moments it seemed that things were almost normal again—they had to battle for space in the small kitchen, as usual, dancing around each other, squeezing up against the wall and counter, ducking under dangerously jutting elbows. There was even a bit of giggling at near-collisions, so bright and ordinary-sounding that Obi-Wan could have wept for pure joy. But it could not last.

Too soon they stood awkwardly in the common room, looking at each other, trying to figure out how to talk. They hadn't had this problem for days. Words had flowed with easy strength in lighthearted rhythm, comfortable and homey, comments and stories, witticisms and affectionate insults. Now the stream had suddenly dried up, and they stood stranded on opposite banks, the dusty bed a chasm of loss between them.

It was Qui-Gon, always instinctively making peace, who made the first move to bridge the gap. "Here, now, Obi-Wan, why don't you sit on the couch? I'm sure we have a lot to talk about, and we might as well be as comfortable as possible."

Obi-Wan gratefully sank down, expecting one or the other of his kind guardians to sit on the recliner. But in the end it seemed that neither could bring themselves to be that far away—they settled on either side of their young ward, both laying an arm over the top of the couch cushion behind his head, which meant that they were consequentially touching each other as well. Obi-Wan felt surrounded, but no longer under siege. They were enveloping him physically in their presence, as if that could keep him safe forever, safe at home with them. But all three knew that this could not be.

"Now, my little one," Qui-Gon said, with the slightest emphasis on the word _my,_ which Obi-Wan knew had to be completely unconscious. "Why don't you tell us why you have to go?"

Obi-Wan pulled in a deep breath and released it, pressing his head back into the lumpy cushion. "I have to be a Jedi."

"You say that as if it is a duty, no longer a dream," Julune observed gently.

Obi-Wan blinked. "Well . . . I suppose that's true. I've had time to get used to the idea of not being a Jedi. It doesn't . . . hurt me the way it used to. I found purpose and . . . and happiness, in life outside the Temple." He glanced tremblingly up at Qui-Gon, and saw only warmth and acceptance there. "My dream was taken from me forcibly, but in the end it died quietly, in peace. Trying to raise it now would be like trying to breathe life into a corpse."

Julune shuddered delicately beside him. "What is it with men and gruesome imagery?" she muttered. Qui-Gon's mouth quirked, and Obi-Wan understood that this was an ongoing complaint, so he smiled too, in acknowledgment.

"Why then do you feel that you must be a Jedi?" Qui-Gon asked.

"Do you feel obligated to them?" Julune asked, and a shadow of fury re-entered her voice. "Because you must believe us, sweetheart—you owe them _nothing."_

Obi-Wan huffed out a breath in wordless frustration. He did not know how to say this. "No, I don't feel obligated to the Jedi. Certainly not to Knight Xanatos. We fought together against the pirates, against the draigons, but it was never an equal partnership, and he never offered me anything. He was afraid to, afraid I would beg more earnestly than I already had. I made such a fool out of myself on that trip."

He said the last bit quietly, disgusted with the person he had been two weeks ago. He knew now that none of that had been necessary, that the Force would make things happen as they had to regardless of how long it took. The path might bend and twist, but it would always reach its destination in the end. All that was required of individuals was obedience.

"But you still feel a sense of duty," Qui-Gon said tentatively, trying to help Obi-Wan figure it out, express what he felt and knew instinctively. "If not to the Jedi, than to who? Or . . . what?"

For a time Obi-Wan was silent. At last he sighed, slumping wearily against the welcoming side that seemed to waiting for him to lean there. "The galaxy. I have a duty to the galaxy."

Qui-Gon's hand rose to cup his face, holding him where he lay, too drained to hold himself upright any longer. On his other side, Julune laced her fingers through his and began to stroke his forearm in smooth, gentle lines from elbow to wrist, an action that prodded at memories that hid under fever haze, but spoke of comfort and rest and healing. He found himself relaxing, unable to fear anything in the presence of this affectionate attention.

"You speak of your visions," Qui-Gon said quietly, realization thrumming beneath his tone.

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. "The Force is telling me these things for a reason. I must be meant to prevent those horrors, somehow. Or tell others who can. Or something. It must be something. Why else would I see such things? I never had such premonitions before my twelfth year. It's not like I have any great talent for it—the Force chose me. I wish it hadn't, but you can't exactly refuse the Force."

Qui-Gon chuckled, gently and sadly. "No, I don't suppose you can."

"Most of the visions have something to do with the Jedi. I see people I know, from experience or from stories, I see places I've lived in all my life. And if I'm going to affect this future, I must be a Jedi. So you see, I have to go. I have no guarantee of success, nothing so firm, but I can do the most good as Jedi. So that is what I must do."

He raised his head slowly, then craned upward as if to whisper a secret in Qui-Gon's ear, though the man was too tall for him to reach even in this slumped, relaxed position. "I don't want to, though. I don't want it at all."

He slid back down, letting his head rest on Qui-Gon's shoulder for a (last?) time. He could feel the tension in the solidly muscled arm beneath his cheek, the trembling in Julune's fingers on his arm, but he could not comfort them. He could not comfort himself. Things would proceed as they had to, and he could no more deny the will of the Force than he could fly.

Obi-Wan knew that Julune was quivering to tell him, "Well, don't then!" He knew that Qui-Gon was suppressing his urge to crush Obi-Wan in his arms and never release him. And he admired them both for their restraint.

"Are . . . are you sure, my little one?" Qui-Gon whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"Yes," Obi-Wan said sadly. "I'm sure."

His temporary guardians pressed him just a little closer, but it made no difference. One by one, the threads that wove between them continued to snap and unravel, curling away from the points of breakage as if in pain, recoiling from the severance in tight knots and whirls of broken cord. And each one hurt a little more.

But it had to be done. It had to happen this way. Inevitability was crushing in on them, and neither Qui-Gon's enormous, gentle strength nor Julune's fiery, incandescent love could forestall the footsteps of destiny, nor even slow them.

Obi-Wan only hoped that it would all turn out all right in the end. As a Jedi, he would have a part in making the galaxy safe for decent, wonderful people like the Jinns. That would have to be enough. As long as he didn't fail in his task, his duty.


	21. Adding to the Emptiness

That night, for the first time since Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan completed their connection in a steady foundation of trust and commitment, the bond failed them. The dreams came as usual, and as usual, Qui-Gon stood against them, with every expectation of seeing them tremble, fade, and vanish. But they did not. The vision continued after only a brief hesitation, a moment of wavering like that of a rampaging man who halts momentarily at the arrival of the local peacemakers, but then goes on, unafraid of such puny retribution.

For the first time, Qui-Gon, too, was oppressed by the horrific images, and this time he was unable to shield Obi-Wan and take the burden on himself. It felt like the vilest betrayal, then, to abandon the boy, but he had to, had to bring himself back to the waking world. And again he ran down the hall to find his young ward struggling silently in his sleep, bathed in sweat and terror and helplessness.

In an echo of that other night nearly a week ago, he wakened the boy and calmed him, rubbing his back and whispering soothing words in his ear. But this time he made no promises, for he knew they would be broken. This time there was no hope of finding a way through together, for the chance to seek it had been taken from them. This time the desperation and grief in the youngster's hands as he clung to his rescuer's sleep tunic was all too real, no concoction of a fevered nightmare, but plain reality.

Both knew that this was the last time they would have in freedom, with no judging eyes or skeptical glances, just the two of them alone in the darkness. Obi-Wan pressed his face against Qui-Gon's chest as if he wished he could climb inside, as if he didn't know that he was already there, and he refused to let go even after his breath had evened and his sobs had ceased. So Qui-Gon maneuvered himself up onto the couch, half-under the shaking boy, and held him as he had in that first night of fever and fear.

Eventually the youngster exhausted himself enough to drift into uneasy slumber, shivering now as cool air sluiced over sweat-damp skin. Qui-Gon bundled him up in the blankets and stayed where he was. He kept watch over the boy who had almost become his son, brushing away the nightmares before they could settle, smoothing the wrinkles out of the young forehead until the boy's rest was deep and peaceful.

He did not sleep.

X

Andros Martin returned the next morning, as Qui-Gon had somehow known he would. He couldn't leave them even one more day, could he? Of course not, Qui-Gon reflected bitterly. That would be too kind.

The Jedi Knight stood in the doorway, watching the man with that infuriating calm. "May I come in?"

Qui-Gon glanced behind himself at Julune, who merely tightened her mouth and crossed her arms over her chest. When it had been time for her to leave for work, she had answered his wordless question with a scathing look. "I feel sick," she had said, more fiercely than the words warranted. "I'm staying home today."

Now she said nothing, but her eyes conveyed her wishes quite clearly. Qui-Gon looked back to the Jedi with a small, silent sigh. "Must you?" He was a bit dismayed by the plaintive tone in his voice, but he couldn't take it back, and he didn't really want to. It was how he truly felt, and he had never been less than honest, even with the lowest of the low he had met in his journeying.

Martin's eyes were large and soft with sympathy. "Yes. There are matters we must discuss."

"Obi-Wan has chosen to go with you, as of course you must have known he would," Qui-Gon said without rancor, weary of the entire ordeal. "What else can there be for us to say to each other?"

The Jedi merely repeated himself. "There are matters we must discuss."

Qui-Gon hesitated, then slowly stepped back, no longer blocking the doorway with his large frame. Martin took this as an invitation and serenely stepped inside. He took a seat in the broken-down recliner without asking permission, unknowingly imitating another Jedi who had sat there, and Qui-Gon found the action somehow obscene, defiling.

"Obi-Wan is in the garden," he said, his voice betraying none of this. _Saying goodbye to his friends, the tree, the flowers, the grasses._ "I'll fetch him."

Julune sat stiffly on the couch, her gaze fixed on the man who had come to take their boy away from them. Qui-Gon left her on guard, aware that he was leaving Andros Martin alone in a niber's den, and caring not at all. Each step felt like he was wading through syrup, slow and heavy, but he wished they could take a little longer, delay each moment as long as possible.

Too soon he stood in the back doorway, watching Obi-Wan in the garden for the last time. Obi-Wan stood on the large flat rock with his back to the house, his hands raised to waist level as if to catch the sparse breeze that murmured in the grasses. He face was tilted gently upward, looking to the twisted tree leaning on the wall. Qui-Gon could feel the silent communion in the twists of Force-current that swirled around the boy, around each bud and leaf and pebble. The Force of poor abused, abandoned Bandomeer was agitated, dim, already mourning its loss, and Qui-Gon could only commiserate.

Obi-Wan turned around before Qui-Gon could make the slightest noise to announce his presence. His eyes were shadowed, blue-gray, but unwavering. "He's come, hasn't he?"

Qui-Gon nodded, unable to speak.

Obi-Wan walked to Qui-Gon and into the house, and did not once look back.

Martin half-rose when they entered the common room, then settled back, hands tucked into opposite sleeves. "This will only take a moment, and then we must go. My transport is scheduled to leave in less than an hour."

Qui-Gon's heart stuttered in his chest. _So soon?_ But he merely nodded and sat on the couch, pulled Obi-Wan down with him, between himself and Julune. _Don't make it harder for the boy than it already is,_ he reminded himself. _Don't add your pain to his. He can't bear it all._

"What's on your mind, Knight Martin?"

Andros Martin licked his lips suddenly, letting them see his nervousness. "You . . . you have formed a bond. It's very visible in the Force, bright and vibrant."

Obi-Wan stiffened beside him, and Qui-Gon wrapped an arm around him without thinking, his eyes still fixed on the man across from him. He would offer no defense. They had done nothing wrong. "Yes?"

"You are aware that Obi-Wan will need to form a bond with his new master? It is necessary for Jedi training."

"Surely it is possible for a Jedi to have more than one bond, just as it is possible for a father to love more than one child," Qui-Gon said.

The knight nodded reluctantly. "Certainly. Some masters train multiple pupils, and all of the bonds remain, at least remnants of them. But having two vibrant, living bonds at once—it is dangerous. You must understand. Obi-Wan will be conflicted between the two of you. It is unavoidable, as hard as he may try to keep the feelings separate—in moments of danger, in the heat of battle, in an intense negotiation—any distraction may prove fatal. You must understand this."

Qui-Gon heart twisted in pain again. He understood all too well. He would never be able to live with himself, knowing that a moment of unguarded emotion sent inadvertently through their bond had caused Obi-Wan or Xanatos to be hurt, or worse. "Yes," he said faintly.

Julune shook her head briskly, taking over without effort. "What do you suggest? Surely not that they should cut the bond off? That's preposterous! It would cause them both enormous pain."

"No. That won't be necessary." Martin shook his head gently. "The bond simply must be suppressed, laid in dormancy, until Obi-Wan's training is complete. Then he can re-awaken it, if he so chooses."

Qui-Gon found himself able to breathe deeply again. That wasn't so terrible, then. But already he ached with loss. He wouldn't be able to feel the boy anymore, wouldn't know where he was, what he was thinking and feeling. He wouldn't be able to guard him from the dreams anymore.

But then, he had already proved useless in that capacity, hadn't he?

Martin leaned forward slightly, hesitantly raising a hand. "May I?"

Qui-Gon looked down at Obi-Wan, saw the fear and pain, and the determination that overrode both. He swallowed, and whispered, "Yes."

The invasion was swift and careful, touching their minds with the numbing force of a cascade of ice. Man and boy breathed a shuddering gasp, and the deed was done. The bright corner of Qui-Gon's mind was dark and silent, and the emptiness tore through him like a crashing wave. Gone. Obi-Wan was gone.

The boy shivered under his arm, gasping again, and Qui-Gon snatched him to his chest, touching him physically because he could not touch him mentally anymore. Obi-Wan dug his fingers into the man's tunic, as he had more than once before, and both knew that this was the last time.

"No," Obi-Wan whispered. "Please no."

Qui-Gon gulped back the words that rose in his throat, demands that they forget this, that they abandon the Jedi to their own means, that they move to Thyferra and live in peace and seclusion. He knew that Obi-Wan hadn't meant to say that, and reinforcing it would only add to the emptiness.

Too soon Obi-Wan steadied. He pressed his face against Qui-Gon's chest for just a moment longer, as if soaking in the contact to store it for the months and years ahead. Then he drew back, gently patting Qui-Gon's arm in reassurance. Qui-Gon dragged in a deep, shuddering breath, and said nothing. _Don't make it harder._ The admonition had become a mantra. _Don't make it harder._

Obi-Wan turned back to the Jedi. "All right. I'm ready."

Julune pulled in a breath that sounded like a sob. Qui-Gon reached across to grab her shoulder. Neither objected.

On the stoop Obi-Wan wavered for the first time, missing a step as Andros Martin continued walking calmly into the street. The Jedi paused and looked back, waiting patiently. Obi-Wan trembled.

He turned and looked up at the Jinns, no longer his guardians, his rescuers, his anything. No. Still his friends. Always his friends. It was not enough, but they still had that.

Julune opened her arms, and he fell into them with a muffled sob, his Jedi calm crumbling to reveal the frightened, grieving child beneath. She pressed him close, squeezing her eyes shut in a vain attempt to trap the tears. "I love you, Obi-Wan Kenobi," she murmured fiercely. "I love you so much. Don't you dare forget that. Don't you ever forget that."

He shook his head convulsively, and she rocked the boy for a moment, then gently released him, stepping back to give Qui-Gon room. For a moment only the two looked into each other's eyes, and then Obi-Wan was wrapped in Qui-Gon's arms again, so tightly that it seemed he could only breathe in hitching gasps.

"Love you, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered, his throat almost too tight for speech. "My little one. My precious little one. Don't forget."

"I won't. I couldn't," Obi-Wan whispered. "Not ever."

And that had to be enough. Qui-Gon carefully opened his arms and let the boy walk away, feeling the terrible rending as he took part of his heart with him. The pain was unbearable. But he did not regret it.

He did not regret one second of the time he had spent on this miserable little planet.


	22. Cut Off

The few days remaining of their stay on Bandomeer passed in a blurry haze, as least to Qui-Gon. He made his usual rounds among the city folk, saying farewell to those he had made connections with, impressing any unique sights on the eyes of his mind with his usual collector's curiosity, making sure he would never forget this planet and the lessons he had learned here. It was a familiar ritual, worn and comfortable with long practice, but this time it was not the same. It didn't bring the sense of closure and release it usually did, not because he still felt attached to Bandomeer, but because the rite seemed somehow redundant. He had already said goodbye to the only person or sight that mattered to him here, and the parting was still bitter indeed. He rather doubted that he would ever find closure for that particular wound.

And when it came down to it, he didn't want to. He didn't want to let go of the child he still held cradled in the depths of his heart, didn't want to let the pain fade, if that meant also losing the clarity of these sweet memories. That once-bright corner of his mind remained dim and empty, a whisper of chill wind that had once been a warm, caressing breeze, and he made no attempt to fill it.

He did not visit any of the Enrichment Zones.

Qui-Gon was aware that Julune was suffering, too. But the mutual pain that should have drawn them together instead seemed only to isolate them. She vanished into her work, as usual right before a move, attending to the myriad details that had to be perfect before they could go on. When they were together they spoke little, only the necessary words to address what needed done as they prepared to leave.

Sometimes Qui-Gon had the faint, tingling sense that Julune was hiding something from him, but somehow he could not muster the energy to pursue it. She was a complex box of mysteries, this feisty, endearingly clumsy woman of science, and he didn't have the heart to pry into her just now. When they got back to Thyferra, perhaps she would relax and open of her own accord. For now they simply struggled to deal, each in their own way, letting the wounds scab over a bit before they examined them.

With the finality of a door slamming shut, the day of departure came. Qui-Gon and Julune took a last walk through the empty rooms they had lived in for two months, making sure they hadn't forgotten anything. Nothing tangible remained, not even dust on the floor or cobwebs in the corners—Julune had made sure of that, as she always did, cleaning as they packed. It wasn't strictly necessary, not required by their lease, but this woman had a strong sense of propriety and right, and made it a point to leave everything and everyone she came across a little better for having met her. Even the light fixtures had been washed, slightly brightening up the cramped space that now seemed almost generous in its emptiness. No, they had forgotten nothing.

But everywhere Qui-Gon looked, he saw intangible things being left behind. Obi-Wan standing in the garden with his eyes closed and face lifted to the sunlight, peaceful and relaxed. Obi-Wan sitting at the kitchen table, peeling jili root with eyes intense and focused, making a face at the yughor that dripped off his spoon, laughing at some old story the Jinns told over dinner. Obi-Wan on the couch in the common room, sleeping, reading, weeping, clutching Qui-Gon's tunic with shaking fingers. Obi-Wan in the hall, hesitantly, timidly explaining how he had felt alone and unwanted for a very long time, but in this place he felt safe, at home. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.

And then they stood on the stoop, having set the door to lock from the inside and left the keycards on the kitchen counter for the owner to collect later. The small _snick_ sound of the door closing for the last time resounded in Qui-Gon's ears far too loudly for such an ordinary, inconsequential little noise. And here, on this innocuous gray duracrete stoop, with its cracks and gouges and worn dips in the middle of the steps where too many feet had trodden, he was met with one last memory. The bright image faded too quickly, and he was left standing there with one hand raised as if to prevent it from going, entirely powerless to do so.

Beside him, Julune breathed a shuddering sigh. "They should be nearly to Coruscant by now," she said, her voice low and subdued.

Qui-Gon nodded. "Perhaps Obi-Wan will comm us when they drop out of hyperspace, let us know that they made it safely." Over the past few days he had often found himself wishing that Bandomeer was not so far away from the bright center of the galaxy, so the Jedi's journey could finish more quickly, so he could hear his lost boy's voice.

Julune made a choked little sound. "I doubt it."

It took a few moments for the despairing words to penetrate Qui-Gon's haze. He looked over sharply, looked fully at his wife for the first time in days, and felt his heart twist in his chest even more painfully than it had already been doing. She was crying, and her eyes were red and shadowed, revealing how frequently this had been happening. How could he not have noticed?

"Oh, darling . . ." He drew Julune into his embrace, holding her gently, and she grabbed him with all the ferocious strength of her burdened heart. There was something more to this, he understood, something more than what he had been struggling with on his own. He had been lazy, self-absorbed—he should have tried to help her earlier. It was just cruel, leaving her to bear more weight than he did, when their partnership was equal in all other matters.

"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry. Why do you say that? What makes you think he wouldn't call? We gave him all of our contact information on duraplast, two or three copies, if I recall, because we kept forgetting we'd already given it to him. He was so grateful for it, to know that there would always be two people in the galaxy who would want to talk to him, want to know how he was doing. Why wouldn't he want to comm us?"

"I'm sure he does," Julune choked out. "It's Knight Martin . . . while you were going to fetch Obi-Wan in the garden, he mentioned, so very _casually,"_ she spat the word like acid, "that Obi-Wan would need a few months to adjust, and he would need that time to concentrate on his new duties, his new role. And that it was very important that nothing distract him, at least until he settled in. I thought that that was terrible enough, and I wanted to fight him, but then you came back, and he started in on the bond . . ."

She raised her head to look his eyes, and saw that he was too stricken to speak. "I couldn't bring myself to tell you. You were already staggering under the loss you already suffered. But this . . . they're depriving us even from hearing his voice, from knowing _anything_ about what's going on . . . ."

"And we have no way of contacting the boy on our own," Qui-Gon murmured, fully comprehending the horror of this news. "We have to wait until they let him . . ."

Julune sobbed and pressed herself deeper into his embrace, and Qui-Gon's arms tightened about her convulsively. The grief and loss was very near to overwhelming him at that moment. Only this woman, and the tiny child she bore, anchored him to cold reality. He could not abandon them.

And he saw, with bleak foresight, the months and years ahead. They would return to Thyferra, and settle down to new, less all-consuming jobs, and Julune would give birth, and they would form a family. They would be happy. They would grow exotic plants and tell fantastic tales to the neighbor children and invite their friends and relations over for delicious meals. Their child would grow free and joyful, playing and leaping, learning, going to school, returning home to leap into Qui-Gon's arms with a delighted squeal, demanding bedtime melodies from Julune until she grew heartily sick of every folk song she knew. Perhaps there would be another child, or two, or three.

They would be happy. But there would always be something missing. Qui-Gon would look across the dinner table, surveying his family, and no matter how many places were set, he would feel in his heart that there ought to be another. At night he would wake in the early morning hours for no reason and go to check on his sleeping little ones, and he would stand in an empty doorway and look at an empty bed, knowing there ought to be a bright, gentle presence there, peaceful and at rest. At odd moments throughout the day he would find himself probing at that dim corner of his mind, and every time, it would be empty and silent. And every time, it would hurt.

He hoped the pain never faded. He didn't want to forget.

At last Julune cried herself out, but he made no move to release her. "Come, dearheart," he whispered. "We need to get to the transport."

But his feet refused to move. Somehow they could not. Julune stood still in the circle of his arms, accepting. They did not move for a long time.

X

Obi-Wan sat in the small observation lounge in the transport and stared dazedly at the portal, watching the blurry streaks of hyperspace blaze by, white and achingly beautiful. His fingers moved gently over the piece of the duraplast he held in his lap, smoothing the edges, feeling how thick and durable it was. Duraplast was advertised never to fade or tear, a permanent record as flexible and portable as any flimsiplast. Obi-Wan wished it was heavier, more substantial. He needed something with weight to hold on to.

He found himself wishing that the letters and numbers etched into the material were engraved, tangible, so he could trace the shape with his fingers, feel the meaning through his skin. Not that he could do much more to memorize these two comlink frequencies, the address of a home on a planet far away. He had read the words so many times that sometimes the characters lost meaning, blurring before his eyes. Then he would blink, and the blurriness went away, sometimes. Sometimes it didn't.

He wanted to comm them as soon as the ship dropped out of hyperspace, but he didn't have his own communicator, and he was somehow afraid to ask Knight Martin for one. The man had turned oddly silent and stern the moment they stepped on board the small ship, and spent very little time where Obi-Wan could run across him. Perhaps he was meditating in his cabin, or doing katas, or some other Jedi thing. Obi-Wan didn't really care, except that he wished he felt comfortable enough with the strange Knight to ask for a comlink.

It would have to wait until they got back to the Temple. They would be there soon, Obi-Wan knew. Already he could feel the slight shift in the engines as they prepared to leave this reality of whizzing time and swirling space. Soon, he reminded himself again. Soon.

The intercom on the wall crackled. "Obi-Wan." It was Knight Martin's voice, as calm and implacable as always, a voice that was not meant to be defied. "Come to the cockpit. We're going to drop into realspace soon, and you'll enjoy the sight more from up here."

Obi-Wan sighed and hauled himself heavily to his feet. It didn't really matter to him, but he had no wish to get on Knight Martin's bad side, even with the smallest rebellion. Though his sense of the Force had been chaotic and discordant for days, somehow he knew that that was a bad idea. It made no sense, for surely as soon as Xanatos claimed him, Andros Martin would no longer be a factor in his life. But he didn't have the energy to question it.

He made his way slowly up the gangway to the forward cabin, and entered just in time to see the blurs and streaks of hyperspace freeze for a moment, then snap into the clear image of a planet dead ahead. For a moment he stared listlessly, unimpressed by the sight. It wasn't Bandomeer, and it wasn't Thyferra, and right now that was all that mattered to him. But after a moment he blinked in surprise, and stared harder, sudden alarm stirring in his chest. This planet was not bright with metal and lights, covered with manmade structures. It was dark red with streaks of green that was almost black, and the sunside seemed to glow with heat.

It wasn't Coruscant.

"I don't understand." Obi-Wan turned toward the man who stood behind the co-pilot's seat, and recoiled in shock. Andros Martin wasn't wearing Jedi garments, no brown robe and cream tunic, no lightsaber on his belt. His trousers were sleek and black, his tunic an open-necked ripple of a hundred shades of blue in decadent swirls, and his face was shaven, revealing the sharp angles and planes. He looked more comfortable in this attire. And he was smiling.

Obi-Wan stared at him with wide eyes, trembling a little in confusion and sudden, surging fright. Something was wrong, but his sluggish mind could not make sense of it.

"Do you recognize me, boy?" Martin's voice was smooth, strong, amused, completely unlike the calm Jedi who had come to visit the Jinns. "You were practically out of your head the last time we met, but I thought you might remember me. We had quite a memorable little chat, didn't we?"

Obi-Wan stumbled back a step, his hand automatically raising to cover his jaw as phantom pain blazed there. Those long, slender fingers that hung so comfortably at Martin's waist . . . they had held his face, wrenched him around, hurt him, made him listen to words he didn't understand through the fever rushing in his head and under his skin. "I . . . I . . ."

Martin smiled, slowly and lazily, the content grin of a felinoid with a squealing, struggling rodent trapped under her paw. "You fought me very hard, boy. It was entirely instinct, of course, but you somehow managed to Force-shove me away and jump out of the speeder. I watched you roll in the dirt and rocks, then stumble to your feet and try to run. I was very displeased, little one."

"Why . . ." Obi-Wan could not form the words.

"Why didn't I catch you then? We lost track of you, clever little Jedi. You hid yourself in trailings that obscured your infrared signature, and I had no bond to track you with. We wouldn't have given up so easily, but then another speeder roared into the area, and that meddler Jinn jumped out and started calling your name. I knew another opportunity would arise, and chose the better part of valor in departing for a time."

The blood roared in Obi-Wan's ears, and his knees felt watery. He leaned back against the console behind him, then pushed himself upright. He called on the Force, which rushed to his aid like a wave of light, pushing back the terror, enveloping him in peace. He should have meditated, he understood now. He should have found his center and made sure this was right path before he made his choice. It was too late now, but the Force did not abandon him for his foolishness.

He faced the man calmly, his hands at his sides. "What now? Why go to so much trouble for one worthless initiate?" _Why do you want me when no one at the Temple did?_

"Why, my dear boy, don't you know the price a Force-sensitive slave will bring?" Martin stepped forward, still grinning, and Obi-Wan was trapped in the corner. How he wished for his lightsaber, left in the Enrichment Zone. But he held himself steady, though he could not prevent a flinch when the man's hand flashed forward.

But there was no blow, no surging pain. Obi-Wan heard a distinct click, felt it vibrate through his entire body. And then the Force did abandon him, and he sank to his knees, struggling to breathe. Martin—was that even his name?—stood over him, waiting patiently, while Obi-Wan raised a trembling hand to feel the cold metal that encircled his neck.

"Don't fight it," the man said in a kind, cool voice that made the boy squirm, crouching down to lift his chin with one finger, forcing him to look into eyes that sparkled with glee. "You're young. Thirteen. You'll learn. It would be harder if you were older, but you're small and weak enough that your new master won't have a great deal of difficulty breaking you. Consider it a blessing."

Obi-Wan shuddered and opened his lips to protest the age he was given, as usual, but had to close them again, swallowing a sob. Martin was right. He'd forgotten.

Today was his birthday.


	23. Numb and Lost

The house on Thyferra was spacious, bright, and clean. It had four bedrooms and two refreshers, a kitchen with plenty of counter and cupboard space ready for the clutter of a family and the projects of children, and the garden in the back was a veritable paradise of every shade of green in existence, with liberal dashes of others color in the spectrum. They had a large common room with floor space waiting to become a minefield of toys and blocks, a dining room table and chairs ready to be made in a child-size fort, a room set aside for music and art. Everything was ready. It needed only a family to fill it.

When Qui-Gon and Julune had first seen the house, shopping around just after their marriage, they were hesitant. It was downright extravagant for two people, let alone just one, as Julune's uncle would be staying there while they were gone traversing the galaxy in search of atmospheric anomalies. But it was perfect. It was exactly what they wanted. Everywhere they looked they saw bright and cheerful visions of a future they longed for, and they could not say no.

Now Qui-Gon stood a few feet inside the doorway, staring around the common room, noticing the potted plants that had arrived before them and had been arranged by friendly hands—probably those of Uncle Javis. He would be by later to greet them, the niece he had raised as a daughter and the nephew-in-law he had taken into his heart with all the joy of a well-pleased father. They had the rest of the day to accustom themselves to their new life in their old home.

Absently, he touched that dim corner of his mind, and was shocked, as always, to feel nothing. He mentally jerked away as if he'd been burned, though his body was still, only his eyes blinking quickly. Would he ever get used to that?

Julune gently passed her hand down the length of his arm as she walked silently by, knowing that he needed time to adjust. She sank down on the couch with a small sigh and closed her eyes, weary from the long journey and even longer wait in customs while they explained every single planet they had visited before coming home. Qui-Gon watched her for a moment, love stirring painfully in his breast, then looked away. He tried not to think of how this homecoming should have been, with three of them coming in the door, excitedly talking and making plans, giving the third member a grand tour . . .

His eye fell on a shelf of knick-knacks, small things he had gathered in his journeys before he met Julune. One stood out in particular, one he hadn't thought of in years. He stepped slowly over and hefted it into his hand, feeling the weight of the smooth, dark rock, studying the tendrils of red that wove through the matrix of water-worn minerals. It felt cool and foreign against his skin, but somehow comforting.

It should have been a gift. Qui-Gon could not say how he knew this, but it was infinitely true. It should have been a gift for a thirteenth nameday, a welcoming gift that saw a boy safely ensconced in the heart of his father, forever and always. It should have been a symbol of two paths joining into one, stronger and more joyful for the binding. But now, it was only a rock.

Heavily, he set the river stone back on the shelf and made his way over to the couch, lowering himself next to Julune. She curled up against him immediately, rubbing her head against his shoulder, the gentle swell of her stomach pressing his side.

"I'm not ready to move on," she murmured, her voice cracked and low with tears spent or hidden.

"I know." He stroked her hair, trying to lose himself in the silky softness against his callused fingers. "We have a few days to settle in. Perhaps it will get better."

"No, Qui-Gon. You don't understand. I don't _want_ to move on."

He pushed his forehead against hers, hard, trying to convey all that he felt with the inadequate language of touch. "I know. I do understand, truly."

For a time they sat in silence, listening to the quiet emptiness of the house around them, the rustle of the tropical breeze coming in the open window as it moved in the drapes. In the end, it was Julune who said what they both knew, her voice heavy with their new burden. "But we must."

"Yes. We must. We will."

There was no comfort in the understanding. There was only duty. Qui-Gon placed his hand against his wife's belly, feeling the quickening of life within. More than ever, he longed for the birth of their child. Only that event could be momentous enough to overshadow what had happened to them in the past two weeks, to give them memories powerful enough to overlay the ones they had just made. The older images would never fade or be lost, but that was as it should be.

Julune laid her hand over his, tightening slightly to convey her comprehension. They had no bond in the Force to share their thoughts and feelings, but somehow they managed despite that, managed to know each other as deeply as two people can. They needed no words.

Which was well, for neither could speak.

X

These nights were the worst. The nights when the labors of the day hadn't tired Obi-Wan enough to force sleep, when all he could do was lay here on his side, listening to the harsh, uneasy breathing of the other slaves who shared his cell, staring at the weeping gray duracrete blocks in front of his face coldly lit by moonlight from the tiny window high on the wall. The nights when all he could do was think.

The first days had been both the best, and the worst. They had been the best because he was still in shock from losing the Force, and the world was trapped in a haze meters outside of his reach. His mind could not be touched, not by any of the things that made those days the worst: Martin's gloating greed, the humiliation of the auction, the grunting, sweating man who bought him, the first day of labor in the fields that had him aching long before nightfall, the stench of the slave quarters, and the entire, overwhelming horror of being in a place where droids were more valuable than sentient beings, where life was short and brutal and meaningless, where no one cared if a worker fainted from heat and lack of water—not even his fellows. Even the first beating had barely registered on his numbed senses, though he did feel the pain of it as if through layers and layers of thick, choking fabric.

Feeling had returned, though he wished with all his heart that it had not. Obi-Wan tried to find a way back into the haze, but without the Force, he could not meditate, could not lose his conscious mind in the calm flow. He had learned to find a kind of stillness, to sink within himself and concentrate on one thought or feeling until everything else faded into gray, but he could not stay there for long. The first blow would bring him out of that stillness, as desperately as he struggled to stay in it.

Even at night, with nothing to distract him, no movement, no sound, he could not stay there, not even long enough to find sleep in these nights that were full of a darkness that reached beyond the physical. He couldn't control his own mind, and he knew that he was weak, useless—no wonder no one had wanted him for a Padawan, not even Xanatos. So he just lay here, thinking.

He thought a lot about Andros Martin. The man was not a Jedi, obviously. That was why both he and Qui-Gon had been wary of him, even without full knowledge of his treachery, and even Julune had sensed something wrong. But they would have thought something was wrong even if Martin had been a true Jedi. Obi-Wan held no blame for the Jinns, only himself. He should have meditated. He should have trusted his feelings. They were always much more reliable than his mind.

But Martin had been able to touch the Force. They had felt his presence in it, felt his strength. He had suppressed the bond, burying it in ice as black as the space between the stars. It had taken no thought for him to do that, no effort. He was powerful in the Force. A Dark Jedi? Even—the stars forbid it!—a Sith?

Obi-Wan didn't like where his thoughts were leading him, so deep and cold, into the darkness of a cave. He prayed that Martin was only a Force-sensitive who had not been given to the Jedi, like Qui-Gon. (But how very unlike Qui-Gon this man was, how completely opposite in every way.) A Dark Jedi or a Sith would be ruthless enough to follow the Jinns back and destroy them, so there would be no witness to testify against him. Let Martin be only a slaver, a black-hearted slaver with an eye for a profit and gifts that exceeded those of his peers.

As on other nights like this, Obi-Wan tried to turn his thoughts away, back to the light and warmth that was his stay on Bandomeer, as inauspiciously as it had begun. He had replayed those memories until they became soft and ragged at the edges and he was no longer sure if this or that had really happened, or if he had only invented it now, when he desperately needed to remember something of life. Sometimes he buried himself so deeply in these memory-dreams that he could almost feel Qui-Gon's warmth surrounding him, hear the stalwart heartbeat drumming in his ear, smell the hint of spice the big man seemed to carry with him. Sometimes he could taste nerf-and-jili stir fry, fresh-washed sweetberries, even the acidic bite of yughor. Julune sang him a folk song, sweet and lilting with only a touch of sadness to make the light more brilliant in contrast, and he drifted off cradled in a blanket of care and gentleness.

How long had it been? Weeks, months? He didn't know. It didn't matter. A single day would be too long, far too long, and it had been many days.

Tonight the memories had not power enough to rescue him from this reality. Again his mind returned to the thought that prevented his rest, worrying it as a wild animal would gnaw a trapped leg. He wasn't going back to the fields tomorrow. The master had noticed him while passing by, making sure that harvest was going well, and he wanted him in the house. What did that mean? Would there be better food, a better place to sleep? Would the tasks be easier? Would there be a kind word now and then, even if only once in a great while?

He hoped so. But he didn't believe it. Nothing got easier from here. It was just going to get worse.


	24. Three Months

One day Qui-Gon looked at his wife and noticed something. "Darling," he said in wonder, a genuine, delighted smile spreading slowly over his face. "You're beginning to show."

Julune stood in the doorway of the kitchen with the morning light in her hair, drinking a glass of muja juice. She smirked at him gently, then finished her juice and set the glass aside so she could give her softly-rounded belly a self-satisfied little pat. "That's right. I can't wait 'til I get big, so big that you can't help but notice, and everywhere we go people will know that I'm going to be a mother."

He was at her side in three slinking, long-legged strides, wrapping himself in her warm arms as much to feel her abdomen pressed against his as to remind her of his love. "It won't be long now. But you're wrong about one thing."

She passed her arms around his neck, lightly brushing his skin with teasing grace. "And what would that be, I wonder?" she asked, full lips curving in a coy smile as one eyebrow rose slightly.

"You're not 'going to be a mother.' You already are one. And no one can doubt it."

"Mmm." Julune laid her head on his shoulder, conceding the point. Then for a moment was only silence, and Qui-Gon knew that they were both thinking of the child who was not clasped safe and warm between them, the son who was wandering the stars.

He felt the slight tensing of muscles in her shoulders and back, and knew she was about to speak. Instinctively, he braced himself.

"Qui-Gon? It's been three months."

Of course he knew that. They were both fully aware of every day that passed as they were aware of the fact that they breathed air—always in the back of mind, present but unacknowledged. But they hadn't spoken of it for some time. "Julune . . ."

She took a deep, swift breath, and plunged recklessly on. "He said a few months. It's been a few months. I want to hear from him. I want to hear his voice."

His arms tightened slightly around her, as much to keep her from leaning back to look in his face as for any other reason. Somehow he couldn't bear to look at her, to see the pain he knew was there, too old and hard, a wound caked over and never healed. "I want that, too. You know I do."

"Then let's call the Jedi Temple. All they can say is no."

Qui-Gon frowned. Something tingled on the back of his neck, a sense of something being out of place, wrong, discordant. But he didn't understand the feeling, and he couldn't explain it to Julune. "I . . . I'm not sure that's the right thing to do . . ."

She planted her hands against his shoulders and pushed off, hard, separating them so she could glare into his face. "How could it be anything but right? I don't understand you."

Qui-Gon swallowed thickly. It was rare for that fierce glint to arise in Julune's eyes, and even rarer for it to be aimed at him. He'd never found a way to quell it without absolute, unconditional surrender, either, though he had sought long and hard for a path. He was well and truly trapped. "I can't explain it, dearheart. Just . . . let me meditate for a while, would you? We can talk about it again when you come home."

Julune jerked out of his loosening grip, movements sharp with frustration and anger. "All right. Fine. Have it your way. I'll be back in a few hours."

She swept out the door without another word, grabbing her cloak as she went. He stared after her with an icy sense of desolation sweeping through him, his hand frozen in the middle of reaching to call her back. Nothing had gone right for them since Bandomeer, it seemed. They had lost their harmony, and he ached with grief. This was not as it should be. Nothing was as it should be.

Well, he had a few hours to try to figure it out. Julune had been taking half-days at the corporation lately, training the research assistant who would replace her while she was on extended leave. Qui-Gon usually found himself at loose ends, and while that had never troubled him before, it did now. Somehow he could not fall back into his usual rhythm of wandering around, doing what he could, volunteering, chatting, doing. Everything seemed gray and useless, even on this world of tropical warmth and the jewel tones of the rain forest, a world made for healing and life.

Qui-Gon shook his head listlessly and slowly made his way out into the back garden. It was much larger than the one on Bandomeer, the soil and air and sunlight perfect to support all varieties of life, but he had not poured himself into the nurturing of it as he might have. Even now as he passed the flowerbeds he saw weeds that needed pulling, fragile plants that needed to be supported with slender stakes that even now sat in the small work shed, waiting to be used.

Later today, perhaps, he and Julune could come out here and do that together, lose themselves in the simple physical pleasure of dirty hands and knees, the scent of plants, the heat of the sun on their necks. It was worth a try, anyway. Any task that didn't require words could only be good for them.

His meditations lately had not been as smooth and easy as before, either. Qui-Gon now had to struggle to catch hold of the threads of the Living Force, when before it had come to him as easily as breathing. Sometimes it was all he could do just to find a measure of calm and peace, never mind any attempts to learn or grow in the Force. But today he did manage to touch the Force, at least. He sought no answers, simply let himself float in the cool flow as it meandered by to destinations unknown. Let the resolution come as it would, he decided at last. He would trust the Force to make everything right again.

And perhaps that was what he needed, this last weary surrender, for Qui-Gon surfaced from the meditation refreshed and centered, feeling much more himself. Always before he had struggled against the wrong he felt tainting his world, struggling to bend the cosmos, to make the broken ends of the circle meet. That was impossible, he saw now. Obviously, surrender had been the key all along.

He still didn't know what he ought to do. He still felt that everything was wrong, imbalanced, shifted out of tune, playing the wrong notes. But now he had faith that the right path would be found despite it all, even despite him and his puny efforts to make it so. It was enough. The slenderest thread of hope was better than the lack he had been enduring 'til now.

Qui-Gon rose smoothly to his feet and walked back to the house, his hand gently, absently touching the waist-high plants as he passed, taking pleasure in the knowledge of them. The sun was directly above—had he meditated for so long? For weeks, now, he hadn't been able to stay in the stillness for more than an hour at most. Today had been very successful, indeed.

He found Julune waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting at the table, tapping the cool simstone surface with her fingernails. She looked up as he entered, that stubborn bitterness still hardening the set of her mouth. "Well? What have you decided? Since you are the one who makes all the decisions now."

His heart sank into his boots, but before he opened his mouth to answer, the communicator on the counter began to buzz. Qui-Gon gave his wife a significant look, promising that they would discuss this later, then walked over and tapped the receive button. A hand-sized hologram flickered to life, and he blinked. While this person might not be the absolute last one he expected to see, he was certainly very near bottom of the list.

"Master Heim Shilbey." Qui-Gon bowed slightly, his eyes still fixed on the shimmering blue features. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Qui-Gon Jinn." Shilbey's face creased in a hesitant smile. "I'm glad I caught you at home. I just . . . well, it's been a few months, and I wanted to check up on you. You never came to say good-bye, and while I suppose I can understand that, I still wondered. How are you doing? How is young Kenobi? May I speak with him?"

Qui-Gon closed his eyes briefly, willing himself not to reel. "Master Shilbey . . . Obi-Wan isn't here. We never finalized the adoption documents. A Jedi Knight named Andros Martin came and fetched him—Knight Xanatos asked for him to be his Padawan. I haven't seen Obi-Wan for three months."

Shilbey's forehead furrowed. "Really? But that . . . that's odd. I don't remember hearing about . . . Well. Most apprenticeships are announced, at least in a text communication. I don't remember seeing Kenobi's name on the roster. Perhaps my eyes just skipped over it."

Qui-Gon's heart began to thunder in his chest. He remembered what Nira had told him, how fiercely Shilbey sought to protect all who came under his care. Surely he would have noticed Obi-Wan's name, if it had been there. The sense of something being out of place sharpened, tingling over his entire body like an electrical storm.

He became of aware of a warmth slowly easing up against his side, Julune's hand circling his arm. She was listening intently, her eyes fixed on Shilbey's distant visage.

The Agri-Corps supervisor seemed distracted, his eyes darting away. "I'm going to check the old communiqués. It must be there somewhere."

He disconnected without a farewell, but Qui-Gon barely noticed. He was already reaching for the numpad, entering a frequency he had looked up weeks ago, but never dared use. Julune's hand tightened on his arm.

A friendly Twi'lek face flickered into existence, polite but distant. "Jedi Temple of Coruscant. How may I direct your comm?"

"I'd like to speak to Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, please."

"I'm sorry, sir. Padawans are not permitted to receive direct communications from outside the Temple. You'll have to take it through his master." It was a message delivered by rote, the pleasant face still almost blank, and Qui-Gon wanted to rage against that absence of emotion. This was deathly important, couldn't she see that?

"Then let me speak to Knight Xanatos, please."

She turned away for a moment, apparently accessing information on a console, then faced him again. "I'm sorry, sir. Knight Xanatos is currently incommunicado on a mission. Would you like to leave a message for him?"

No, no, no. That would never do. Qui-Gon wanted to talk to a person, someone with answers. He bit his lip to keep himself from yelling this in her face. "Never mind. Could I speak with Knight Andros Martin?"

Again she turned away, accessing information. This time a slight wrinkle appeared on her forehead. "I'm sorry, sir. No Jedi exists with that name."

"Are you sure? He isn't on a mission or at a periphery temple or something?"

"Sir, our information at the Temple of Coruscant is always kept up-to-date on the entire Order. I assure you, we have no knight named Andros Martin."

"Please check again."

She did so, smooth face still Jedi-calm. "There is no Andros Martin in this database."

Qui-Gon swallowed. His breath was starting to quicken, too. "What about Obi-Wan Kenobi? Is the name in your records, even if we can't talk to him?"

Tense seconds of silence. "I'm sorry, sir. There is no Obi-Wan Kenobi in the Jedi Order."

Qui-Gon stared at the wall behind the communicator, seeing nothing. Julune's hand tightened on his arm, holding him painfully.

"Sir? Is there anyone else you would like to talk to?"

He transferred his attention back to the Twi'lek operator, willing himself not to shiver. "Who is the highest authority in the Jedi Temple?"

"That would be Master Yoda, sir, the head of the Jedi Council."

"I would like to speak to Master Yoda, please. It's very, very important."

For a time she just stared at him, and he wondered if she was going to refuse the request, if this Yoda was too important or too busy to talk with a stranger from Thyferra. But then, she looked away, movements suggesting that she was pressing buttons. "One moment, sir, while I transfer your comm."


	25. Failure

Now the hologram showed only the emblem of the Jedi Temple, spinning in place, while Master Yoda was called. Qui-Gon stared at it, his breath gradually quickening with each revolution, until he was panting in harsh, gasping jerks. His knees felt suddenly weak, and he began to sink toward the floor with a breathless moan.

Julune grabbed his arm and flung it over her shoulders, bracing her slender weight against his side to hold him up. "Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon!"

He covered his eyes with a shaking hand. "Oh, my boy. My poor boy. Julune, Julune, it was the kidnappers, it must have been. They failed in stealing Obi-Wan by main force, so they chose a more powerful weapon—deception. And they succeeded. They succeeded. They took him away. Oh, my little one, precious little one, what is happening to you?"

Julune's arms wrapped slowly around his torso, then tightened, harder and harder, until breathing was almost impossible. He could feel her sudden, surging desperation, feeding on and multiplying his own. He knew that they needed to grab control, calm down, reason this out, but all he could think of was young Obi-Wan, just turned thirteen, alone and unprotected in a galaxy that was much too vast and full of dangers, with a man who was not a Jedi Knight. A man who had deceived them, who had suppressed the bond with barely a thought, who even as they stood here frozen and useless might be doing horrible things to the sweetest, bravest child Qui-Gon had ever met.

"Julune, Julune, I failed him so terribly. I never should have let him out of my sight. I never should have believed the first man who came to our door in Jedi robes. I should have wondered, I should have called, I should have—I should have . . ."

"Qui-Gon, stop it. Don't torture yourself like this." Julune reached behind herself with one long arm and snagged a chair from the table, dragging it next to the comm and gently forcing Qui-Gon to sit in it. Then she claimed his lap, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck and gazing seriously into his eyes. "Andros Martin is the one to blame here. He said all of the right things, convinced all three of us. He knew names and details, and you felt his presence in the Force. Did you sense the darkness in him?"

"No, no . . . he must have hidden it. But I should have looked harder . . ." Qui-Gon's eyes shifted restlessly away, unable to meet the gentle brown pools that studied him so tenderly.

Julune pressed his face between her hands and forced him to look at her despite his wishes. "We can't waste time on regrets, Qui-Gon. No one can change the past. All we can do is go on from here. And we will, darling. We will. We will find our boy and bring him home, no matter what it takes."

The words steadied him, gave him purpose. The world slowly ceased whirling around him, settling into the familiar lines and curves, no longer wavering like a scarf on the waves. Qui-Gon met his wife's eyes, and nodded firmly. "No matter what it takes. He's ours, ours forever, and anyone who thinks otherwise will soon know better."

"That's my Qui-Gon, my strong big papa." And Julune laughed softly, but with an edge of hysteria. Then she put her face down on his shoulder and wept. Her hands twisted in his tunic, and he enfolded her in his arms and laid his cheek against her hair. They were one in spirit again, and it was a sensation intensely sharp in its sweetness, but bitter for the cause that joined them.

The Jedi emblem flickered away, replaced by the face and shoulders of a creature with a small, wise green face, ears long and uplifted alertly, yellow eyes calm and intense. "Master Yoda I am. Something there is that I can do to help you?"

Qui-Gon took a deep, shuddering breath, and Julune raised her head to look at the little Jedi Master with reddened eyes. "Master Yoda, I am Qui-Gon Jinn of Thyferra, and this is my wife, Julune. Three months ago we were stationed on Bandomeer, and there we met a former Jedi initiate named Obi-Wan Kenobi. We quickly grew to love him as our own, and because he was no longer a Jedi, we made plans to adopt him. But before we could finalize our plans, a man came to our door who claimed to be a Jedi Knight. He called himself Andros Martin . . ."

Quickly he outlined what had happened, then explained what they had just learned. He had to fight to keep his voice calm and steady, and had to stop to swallow his tears a few times. "Master Yoda," he finished, near choking on his pain and fear. "I'm terrified to imagine what has happened to Obi-Wan, what he's going through as we speak. This man, Martin—he is able to use the Force. I can only surmise that he wanted Obi-Wan for some dark purpose. Is there anything you can do to help us? Obi-Wan was once one of your own. Surely you cannot abandon him now."

Yoda had shown almost no expression as Qui-Gon talked, though the man thought that he might have detected a flicker of sorrow in the large eyes, and the ears seemed to lose some of their perkiness. Now the little green master sighed and lowered his head, ears and eyelids drooping. "No, abandon a lost child we never shall. It brings great sadness to my heart to hear your tidings. A special student Obi-Wan was to me, always, very bright and eager to learn. Failed, we have, to keep him safe. An evil turn this is, a very evil turn." He shook his head slowly, and Qui-Gon could see the genuine sorrow in him.

Julune leaned forward slightly. "I don't understand. If Obi-Wan was special to you and you enjoyed teaching him, why didn't you accept him as your Padawan? He was heartbroken to be rejected by what he considered his home, and he worried himself until he was literally sick with it."

"Not the will of the Force, it was, for me to take Obi-Wan Kenobi as my Padawan Learner. Explain further than that, I cannot, for I do not know. Sorry I am to tell you this, Mistress Jinn, but infallible and all-knowing the Jedi are not, not even I, who is looked upon as the greatest of our number."

Julune leaned back against Qui-Gon, and he saw her free hand shape into a fist, the arm still about his neck tightening until it trembled. It wasn't a good enough explanation for her, and he wasn't satisfied with it, either. But it wasn't important right now—only Obi-Wan was.

Qui-Gon shook his head slightly, spreading his open hands in an unconscious gesture of supplication. "What can we do, Master Yoda? This is the son of my heart, and my spirit cries out to think of him in danger."

"Fear, I do, that too much time has passed for an investigation to succeed. But information we will send to every Jedi in the field, so all can watch for any sign of Obi-Wan, and to Bandomeer someone will go to uncover any clues that may be found. All that I can offer, this is. Your forgiveness I ask. Meditate, I will, on what else can be done."

"But what can _I_ do, Master Yoda?" Qui-Gon asked. His empty hands felt useless, weak. "I won't rest until he is safe."

The small green face creased in a gentle smile. "And that means much, Master Jinn. Tell you what to do, I cannot. To your own heart you must listen, and follow the will of the Force."

Qui-Gon relaxed fractionally, unaware that he was doing so. This was the only Jedi ever to honor him with name of "Master." Not even Dooku had afforded him that. Yoda must have descried the Force-sensitivity in him, even across this vast distance. That spoke well of his sight, and his trust in Qui-Gon's judgment bolstered his own. "Thank you. I know you will do everything you can to save Obi-Wan."

The little green master nodded solemnly. "Indeed I will. Indeed I will."

Yet Qui-Gon could not help the pained certainty that filled his heart, the despairing fear that it would not be enough.

X

Obi-Wan stood in his corner of the study, careful to keep his eyes on the floor as Master Belimi and his guest discussed their business. He tried to pay attention, tried to focus, and most of all tried not to look at the open circle of metal that lay on the desk. He couldn't afford to let his mind wander, and he certainly couldn't afford to let himself think about escape. It was impossible. He knew that now.

The first time Belimi had brought him in here and removed the collar, Obi-Wan had been elated almost past the bearing. The feeling of the Force flowing through him again had been a surge of delight so overpowering that it almost brought him to his knees, and he could only stand there, gasping and blinking, reveling in the light and warmth that flooded his body and spirit. But it had been the hope that unmanned him—hope of escape.

How very naïve he had been. Belimi knew exactly what he was doing. Obi-Wan flung all the power he could command at that loathsome man, hammering into his will with the strongest mind-suggestion he had ever made. It didn't even make a dent. Belimi just smiled at him, ice-blue eyes revealing his genuine pleasure. Then he informed him coolly that the first attempt was free, but every future use of Jedi sorcery without express permission would earn him a severe beating. Obi-Wan was a slave, and he was subject to his master's whim, body, mind, and soul—including every skill he had ever learned.

Then Obi-Wan had tried to call the blaster from the holster of the guard standing at the door, tried to mind-trick the guard, flung paperweights and styluses and everything in the room that wasn't bolted to the floor, fought and screamed and nearly went out of his mind from the pain of having hope given, then torn from him so cruelly and capriciously. Somewhere in there he did earn a beating, and it was a bad one. He was sick for three days afterward, not least because of the Force-collar again around his neck, cutting him off from the gentle power that might have helped him heal.

The next time Belimi brought him to the study and removed the collar, he just stood there, waiting. He learned that he was to use the Force to test his master's business partners for dishonesty and to use his mind-powers against any enemies, all under the guise of being a simple serving-boy. It was no use explaining that Obi-Wan wasn't very proficient with this skill, that sometimes even non-Force-sensitive sentients had natural shields that would rebuff him, that failure was not only possible, but likely.

Belimi did not care. Obi-Wan dreaded these times in the study as fervently as he anticipated them. Feeling the Force was a glorious rush of light and life, every single time, even though he could do nothing with it except try to pry into another's mind. But every single time brought the possibility of failure, of being unable to fulfill his master's commands. And he had failed, inevitably, and taken his punishment immediately after.

Obi-Wan was very careful not to think of this now. His concentration had to be kept on the moment, on every word that passed between the two men. Afterward Belimi would question him closely about what he sensed during the conversation, and any lapse would earn another beating. Obi-Wan didn't know if he could stand another one, not so soon after the last.

Even this was better than being sent back to the fields, as had often been threatened. At least here in the house his duties were relatively light, and the food was usually fresh, if no more abundant. He did his best to think only of the positive aspects. Even not having the Force could be a blessing, for the visions could not find him here.

Sometimes it was very hard to convince himself of the good things, though. He longed so badly to see the stars, to step into the fresh air without a guard standing two feet behind him with blaster drawn. The chains in the house might not be quite so heavy, but they were still chains.

Today had been one of the good ones. The visitor's mind had been completely open and unshielded, almost as if it had been deliberately prepared for him to view. Obi-Wan had seen only honesty and genuine respect for Belimi, a slight irritation when the guest had lost an argument, anticipation of future dealings. He was glad to be able to report so. Of course, he did sense hidden depths in the heavyset man who sat on the other side of the desk, thin lips curved in a smile, but every sentient had those. There was no need to mention it.

At last Belimi and his guest rose in tandem, clasping hands, offering their farewells. It had been a good visit. Then the unprecedented happened. The visitor's eyes flicked back to the scruffy slave-boy who stood against the wall, and saw him as more than the furnishings.

And a voice spoke in his mind. _Hush. Show no sign. Be patient. I will help you escape._

Obi-Wan drew in a deep breath and did not move, did not blink, carefully freezing himself in place. The door opened and shut, and the master's guest was gone. But he had left behind more than that satisfied expression on Belimi's face.

He had left a shred of hope.

And it hurt, because Obi-Wan knew it could not be true.


	26. Storm Rolls In

Qui-Gon surfaced from another fruitless meditation, opening his eyes with a long sigh. Then he blinked—Julune sat before him, cross-legged on the ground in the sun of the garden, looking at him earnestly. For a moment the image blurred, and he remembered completing another meditation, opening his eyes to find another person watching him with almost the same expression of concentration. He blinked, and the wavering of his sight resolved itself, and he saw Julune again.

"Any luck?" she asked softly.

Qui-Gon shook his head, swallowing. "I . . . I think I've undone the suppression on my side, though of course I can't know for sure without an expert telling me. I can feel through the bond again, in any case. But when I reach out . . . nothing. I can't feel Obi-Wan at all." His chest heaved. "It, it's like exploring a cave with a rope tied around your waist, getting lost, following the line back. You think you can feel a steady presence on the other end, a tugging responding to your own, but then suddenly you reach the end of the rope . . ." He pulled in another deep breath, struggling to continue. "And—and it's cut, sheered off, snagged on something, leaving you alone in the dark. The tug you thought you felt was just an echo of your own. He isn't there, Julune. I can't feel him."

She leaned forward and cupped his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks, her eyes pools of grief and understanding. Of course she had never seen many of the sights he had, explored so many corners of the galaxy, experienced what he spoke of. But she understood the loss, the despair, the hope crushed painfully to the ground, continually raising weakly only to be stomped into the dust again.

"Maybe the bond is still suppressed on his end," Julune said. "Maybe he doesn't know how to reverse it, or hasn't been able to for some reason."

"Yes, that must be it." Qui-Gon raised his hands to touch hers, holding them against his skin. "Of course it is. He's out there. We just need to find him."

She nodded firmly. "Of course." Her head tilted slightly, brow wrinkling. "Have you gotten any direction from the Force on where you ought to begin looking?"

He sighed in frustration, frowning. "It doesn't make any sense. I keep getting the feeling that I ought to stay here. But that can't be right. It's been too long, far too long. It's already been almost a week since we talked to Master Yoda. Obi-Wan could be anywhere in the galaxy."

Qui-Gon heaved himself to his feet, suddenly unable to remain sitting any longer. The sun was too bright and cheerful, the tropical breeze too warm and soothing. It didn't seem right that the world remained so beautiful while their boy was lost in the darkness.

Julune rose with him, clutching his arm. "Your friends will be here tomorrow, won't they? And then you'll head out and start looking. Perhaps the Force will be more clear once you head out from Thyferra."

He nodded absently, holding himself back from pacing only because his wife was attached to his arm. It had taken a number of comm calls to track down one of his pilot buddies from his days as a wanderer, and Guber Triln had been almost on the other side of the galaxy from Thyferra when he got the message. But he had immediately agreed to come and help his old friend search for his missing boy. Qui-Gon had saved his life more than once, and the pilot had not forgotten. Besides, Guber had always had a soft spot for kids—the only such the grizzled old arms-runner possessed, beyond a fierce protectiveness for his crew.

Qui-Gon had made other calls, too, alerting his own network of contacts, calling in old favors. It was a smaller net than that spread by the Jedi Temple, no doubt, but it was more diverse, perhaps even a bit wider. Something would turn up. It had to.

He refused to consider any other possibility.

"Come into the house," Julune entreated, gently tugging his arm. "Supper's ready. And it looks like a storm is coming in."

Qui-Gon squinted up at the sky. In his irritation at the sunlight, he hadn't noticed the darkly boiling clouds approaching on the northern horizon. It seemed to be a fast-mover, like most storms in this season—quick, cold, and powerful. It would be gone by morning, but the night would be worried with howling wind and sheeting rain.

He looked back down into Julune's worried face, and managed a slight smile for her sake. He wasn't hungry. But he would eat, for her. "Sounds good, dearheart. Maybe we'll be able to read for a while this evening, shut out the storm, just we two. Three." He trailed his fingertips over her stomach, his smile widening, more genuine.

Julune's face opened in weary delight, eyes bright beneath the shadows, at the prospect of a long, warm cuddle on the couch. "That would be lovely. You're a wonderful reader. C'mon, let's eat."

She tugged his arm again, and he followed.

X

Obi-Wan peered out the front screen at the dark clouds rolling over the sky, obscuring the tropical sun. He had made it. He was here, only a few steps away from home. For a moment he was dizzy with the understanding, but still, it did not seem real.

Almost, he reached out to touch the Force, the movement aborted before he began. Even before he had slipped away from his "rescuers," he had known he could not touch that power again. The invisible world was cold and empty around him, held away from him by a shield of denial. He couldn't. He didn't dare. Ability did not equal right. Absently his hand rose to finger the fading welt around his neck, the mark of the collar that had rested there only three days ago.

"This is right, friend Obawan?" a voice asked softly at his elbow. "This is your home?"

Obi-Wan nodded, turning to face the Phindian pilot, face concerned beneath his flight cap and goggles. Obi-Wan could not reach out to the Force to test the rightness of it, to contact Qui-Gon, but the address he had memorized months ago was still firmly impressed on his mind. "Hilara City, Thyferra. This is it. Where I need to be. Thank you, Paxxi."

His throat closed up, and he could not speak. But there was so much more he needed to say, to thank the two strangers who had gone far out of their way to help him. He had been in a blind panic when he ran into that strange spaceport, looking for somewhere to hide, to stow away, deathly afraid that he would be found and taken back, though he didn't know which would be worse—Belimi or the man who had taken him away from there.

It must have been the kindness of the Force that let him find these Phindian brothers, gave him strength to gasp out that he needed to go to Thyferra before he collapsed into their long, rubbery arms. When he awoke they were already in space, and someone was talking softly as he tended his wounds, explaining that he, too, had been a slave once, on a mining platform on an ocean world, and Guerra and Paxxi Derrida would never betray a fellow escapee for all the credits in the galaxy.

Without question they had agreed to take him to Thyferra, though it must have been out of their way. Without question they had done everything they could to ease him, to comfort him, to heal him. Obi-Wan had lost any faith he'd once held that anyone could have such immense compassion and kindness for a stranger, but they had given it back to him. That was worth almost more than anything else they'd done.

"Thank you," he said again, helplessly, wishing there was some way to express the deep gratitude he felt. It seemed impossible.

"No worry, Obawan," Guerra said, coming up behind Paxxi and reaching over his brother's shoulder with his long arm to pat the human's shoulder. "It is our great happiness to bring you somewhere safe. Maybe someday you do something for us, yes?"

"Such foolishness, my dear brother," Paxxi scoffed, slapping Guerra's arm. "We are great and bold pilots who will never need help from anyone. Not so, I lie! Always we would be happy to know that we can call on our great friend, Obawan." He grinned at the boy, shrugging nonchalantly. "Never can know what might happen in this great galaxy."

Obi-Wan smiled back, weakly, almost despite himself. The Derrida brothers seemed to respond to the sorrow and pain of the universe by turning it all into one enormous joke. He couldn't help appreciating it, though he didn't know if he would ever be able to see anything with such cheerful optimism, himself.

"Is there anything else you need?" Guerra asked, sobering now. "Sorry to say so, but we cannot stay here long. Our cargo is due on Ryloth tomorrow. If we leave now we will arrive much too early. Not so, I lie! Just on time, we will be."

Obi-Wan shook his head. They had given him so much—there couldn't possibly be anything else.

"At least use the comm to call your friend, this Gon-Jinn," Paxxi said, waving a hand at the console in the wall. "We would like to see you safely with him before we leave."

"Oh. Of course." Obi-Wan slowly stepped to the wall. His hand hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, then entered the frequency swiftly and surely. He thought his heart would beat right out of his chest, it pounded so fiercely and rapidly.

The comm was audio-only, the Derridas' ship not among the most luxurious in the galaxy. But the sound of Qui-Gon's voice almost sent the boy to his knees yet again, and it was only Guerra's arm around his waist that held him up. "This is the Jinn residence. Is that you, Guber? Here early, you old pirate?"

The voice was anxious, tense, but amazingly warm, wonderful, strong and deep. It wrapped around Obi-Wan like a blanket, familiar and right, so right. Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? Listen, whoever you are, I have no time to waste on pranksters." The voice was stern now, almost angry. "If you don't have a good reason for calling, get off the comm. I need it open."

"Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan whispered.

"Hello?"

"Qui-Gon!" It was a shout this time, desperate and grief-stricken and joyful beyond words.

A split second of silence, and then a torrent of words poured out of the comm, filling the small cockpit to overflowing with joy and sorrow and anxiety and guilt and love, love warm and deep and tender and aching. "Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan! Is that you, little one? Please, please, don't let this be a joke! Is it you, is it really you? Where are you? Where have you been? Are you all right? Are you hurt? Obi-Wan!"

Obi-Wan's words emerged in breathless sobs, broken and disjointed. "It's me! It's me! Qui-Gon! I'm at the spaceport. I got away. I'm not all right, not at all, but I'm here, I'm here."

"The spaceport! Oh, that's too far away! It will take me half an hour to get there! I'm coming, Obi-Wan, I'm coming right away! Don't you move! I'm coming!"

A distinct click as the comm shut off, and Obi-Wan leaned, boneless, against his Phindian friend, struggling for breath. Paxxi supported him on his other side, long arm twining around his brother and the young human. After a moment Obi-Wan struggled to stand, pushing against their rubbery arms. "I have to go . . . get outside . . . be ready to meet him . . ."

"We have time, friend Obawan. No need to hurt yourself." But the Phindians let him rush through the ship to the hatch, following at his heels.

"He didn't stop to ask which docking bay—I should go to the front of the spaceport, wait for him there . . ."

Obi-Wan took one running step across the open duracrete, before a gentle hand on his shoulder pulled him back and turned him around. The Derridas stood just outside the hatch, one looking nervously up at the sky while the other wrinkled his nose at Obi-Wan.

"A storm is coming very quickly. So pleasant it will be to fly in that weather," Paxxi said.

"Not so, brother, you lie!"

Paxxi nodded eagerly. "True, I did, I lied." He squinted amiably at Obi-Wan. "We must go now, though we are sorry not to meet your Gon-Jinn. But from his words, I know that he will take great care of you."

"It is our happiness to know this," Guerra said earnestly. "You will be well, friend Obawan. And happy, and strong, and a great good friend to these two silly Phindians."

"You aren't silly," Obi-Wan said softly. "You have been _my_ great good friends, not the other way around. I can't thank you enough."

"There is no need. We did very little, but we are glad to give what we can."

The brothers said good-bye by wrapping their long arms around Obi-Wan and squeezing gently, three times. Then Obi-Wan backed up to the edge of the docking bay and watched their strange, clunky little ship lift off and fly away into the darkening sky. He waved until he couldn't see it anymore, then walked as quickly as he could through the spaceport to the main entrance, ignoring the questioning looks thrown his way by every Thyferran he passed, pilots and security guards and officials. He knew he looked like a waif, with his ragged slave clothes and pale, bruised face, and no doubt they would throw him out if he wasn't already leaving.

He didn't have the energy to run as he had begun, and once outside, his steps began to slow, his vision narrowing as strength slipped away like water through a sieve. He was vaguely aware of rain, voices, people running to get out of the weather, but he had nowhere to go. Why was he still walking? Couldn't remember . . . didn't matter . . .

By this time Obi-Wan knew only one thing, but he clung to it. It was the only thing that mattered. Qui-Gon Jinn was coming. Didn't matter how far away he was, how long he took, what tried to stop him. He was coming, coming to get Obi-Wan and take him home.

It was cold, wet, miserable. Dark. Obi-Wan didn't like the dark. He huddled in on himself, shivering. He had to get out of the rain . . . It was beating against him, stinging through his flimsy garments. The wind pummeled his thin body, pushed him against a wall. Slowly, painfully, he inched his way along the rain-slick plaster, found a recessed doorway.

With a sigh of thankfulness, he sank down to a sitting position and waited for Qui-Gon.


	27. The Lights of Home

"Have you seen a boy? About this high, ginger-brown hair, blue-green eyes, thin, soft-spoken—have you seen him? Do you know where he went?" Qui-Gon's questions to the guard at the entrance of the Hilara City Spaceport tumbled out in a rush, hands gesturing wildly, indicating a height somewhere around his chest, vaguely tracing the image of his lost boy. The rain plastered his hair into his eyes, but he barely noticed, his entire being occupied with his urgent quest.

It had taken far too long to get here, of course. The public transport had been faster than trying to get through the rain-clogged streets in his own speeder, but it had still been slightly delayed, and Qui-Gon chafed at every lost moment. Obi-Wan's soft, half-sobbing words still echoed in his ears: _I'm not all right, not at all, but I'm here, I'm here._ The first half of that statement filled his heart with agony, but the second overwhelmed it with pure joy. It didn't matter what had happened, how badly he was hurt, not right now—Obi-Wan was on Thyferra, only a short ride away from the home that waited for him, longed for him with held breath. They would heal him as they had before, and soon he would be strong and happy and cheerful again, this precious child who had already brought such amazing light into their lives.

Julune would be very unhappy that he hadn't taken time to tell her that he was leaving, or where he was going. But Qui-Gon wagered that she would forgive him the moment he walked in the door and she saw why he had gone.

The security guard nodded. "Skinny little beggar of a kid? Yeah. He went that way." He pointed disinterestedly down the street, and Qui-Gon was gone, sparing only a moment to throw a hasty word of thanks over his shoulder as he splashed away.

He peered through the gray veil of rain, head jerking this way and that as he searched. Still the bond in his mind was dark and silent, but soon that would be fixed, too. Nothing would be impossible once they were together again. At this moment Qui-Gon felt only confidence that all their troubles would soon be over. And then he saw the object of his search, and his breath deserted him in a rush.

Obi-Wan sat curled up in the corner of a doorway, out of at least part of the rain. Qui-Gon's heart leaped, even as it twinged at the boy's pallor, the new bruises that smudged his face. He began to run, splashing through the puddles, his cloak flying back from his shoulders.

The boy saw him when he was still halfway down the street. He slowly struggled to his feet, using his legs to push his body against the side of the doorway to lever himself up. Then he stood waiting, his heart in his eyes, though he seemed too tired even to smile.

Then, finally, after too many age-long months and weeks of waiting, Qui-Gon was there, trying to do a hundred things at once. He was hugging the boy to his chest, rocking him back and forth, kissing his forehead, brushing the too-long hair away from his face, feeling him for injury and frowning at the prominent bones, caressing his cheek, and hugging him again, all the while pouring out a disconnected string of exclamations and endearments in a frenzy of joy.

"Oh, my poor little one, my precious child, I'm so glad I found you! What happened? Where have you been? Never mind, tell me later. Oh, we've missed you so! My poor Obi-Wan! I can feel your pain—where are you hurt? We'll fix you up, no fear. You're safe now. When was the last time you ate? I'm sorry I took so long to find you. But you're home now! You're home, you're home. I'll never let you out of my sight again!"

Obi-Wan, caught between crying and laughing, hugged him back with all the strength he had left, his voice muffled against Qui-Gon's chest. "Safe with you."

"Safe with me," Qui-Gon murmured, again rocking his lost-and-found boy like a little child, gently rubbing his knotted shoulders. "Always and ever, my precious, precious Obi-Wan. Always and ever."

Obi-Wan drew in a sobbing breath and dug his fingers into the back of Qui-Gon's tunic. "Missed you." He pressed his face against the broad shoulder. "So much."

"Oh, my poor lad. You're freezing cold. What is this you're wearing? Silk? No good at all." Qui-Gon pulled the cloak around the youngster, holding him against his own body to warm him. "Can you walk? I'll carry you. You're done in."

Obi-Wan stirred at that, lifting his head within the shelter of his rescuer's cloak. "I can walk. Please don't . . ."

"Mm. We'll take a groundcab."

He pulled a comlink from an inner pocket, hand trembling slightly with everything that was still rushing through him, and found the frequency of a local cab company. The vehicle arrived in only a few minutes, a time the two spent in silence, just leaning against the wall. Obi-Wan continued to cling to the man's side, though he seemed barely aware of his surroundings, and Qui-Gon held him just as tightly. He didn't know if he would ever be able to let go, if he would ever be able to trust that his boy wouldn't disappear if he relinquished his touch for the smallest moment. It was a gift to have Obi-Wan returned to him, the grandest and most glorious gift the universe had ever afforded him, and he couldn't help a slight skepticism at its reality.

"Nasty storm, this, eh?" the driver said as Qui-Gon ushered Obi-Wan into the groundcab, half-lifting him when the boy seemed too weak to bring himself across the gap between curb and vehicle. "Bet you're glad to be out of the rain."

"Yes," Qui-Gon said absently. They settled down on the pseudo-leather bench as the door whirred quietly shut. He still gazed fixedly at the wet, bedraggled mop of hair that rested on his shoulder, rubbing Obi-Wan's back and arms in an attempt to warm him. "It's a bad storm."

But Qui-Gon would never be irritated by storms again, he was sure. He would always bless their coming from this moment on, for this one time when a storm rolled in from the north, it had brought Obi-Wan with it. That was all the reason he needed to love the rain forever after.

Obi-Wan started slightly as Qui-Gon's hand pressed against his back again, a small moan jerking free of his lips, and the man froze in mid-motion. "Obi-Wan?" He spoke quietly, aware that the boy would not want attention drawn to himself, not even that of a friendly driver. "What's wrong, son?"

"Hurts," the boy said meekly. "It's all right. Nothing to worry about."

Qui-Gon softened his touch on the boy's back to the most gentle of caresses, tracing his fingers over the bony spine and ribs. And he felt it, through the scandalously thin tunic, felt the wounds that marked his boy. He shuddered with sorrow and pain. "Oh, Obi-Wan. My poor Obi-Wan. What did Andros Martin do to you?"

"Andros Martin?" The name was spoken dreamily, as if Obi-Wan barely remembered it, as if it hardly mattered. "He . . . he sold me into slavery. That's all."

For a moment Qui-Gon could not breathe. "Then who . . . who beat you?"

Obi-Wan snuggled a little closer, shivering under the thick cloak, warm despite its dampness but obviously not warm enough. His voice was still dreamy, absent. "Belimi. Miko Belimi was my master. He didn't usually beat me himself, though . . . he had one of the guards do it. It was worse when he took a personal hand—that meant he was very, very angry. Those were the really bad ones, the ones that made me sick for a few days afterward." He shuddered convulsively and turned his face into Qui-Gon's chest, rubbing like a little child ridding his face of tears, though none were in evidence.

Qui-Gon's arms slowly, inexorably wound themselves around the chilled youngster and pressed him close, so close that he eventually realized that he needed to let up a bit to allow Obi-Wan room to breathe. "This happened often, my little one?"

The boy suddenly went very still, and Qui-Gon realized that he was aware of himself again. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Please, Qui-Gon, don't make me talk about it."

"All right, all right," Qui-Gon soothed gently. "You're tired and cold and wet. It can wait. Just rest now. We'll be home soon."

Obi-Wan relaxed, and by the time they reached the house he was dozing. But Qui-Gon didn't like how shallow and light his breathing was, the slightly laboring sound of it, as if the boy had to struggle for air. He hoped Obi-Wan wasn't developing another fever, though he supposed that it shouldn't be any surprise. Obi-Wan had obviously suffered a great deal more than he had the first time he came to the Jinns so ill and run-down. And this time it wasn't visions and heartache that had oppressed him, but the cruelty of sentient beings.

They pulled up at the front walk, and Qui-Gon peered doubtfully up at the house for a moment. The lights were blazing, warm and yellow through the rain, a candle that banished every shadow. He could see Julune pacing, fists clenching and unclenching, and it finally occurred to him, much too late, that he could have used his comlink to leave her a message. But his every thought had been focused on Obi-Wan.

The driver had been mercifully silent, sensing, with the sagacity of most sentients who daily served dozens and scores of beings, that his passengers preferred silence. Now he glanced back at the man and boy, and followed Qui-Gon's gaze to the lighted windows. "She gonna be mad at you, buddy?"

The corner of Qui-Gon's mouth quirked upward. "Probably. But it won't last. We've been waiting for this day for a long, long time."

"Yeah." The bright eyes briefly touched on Obi-Wan, at least the sliver of his face visible through the opening of Qui-Gon's cloak. "You'd better get your kid inside and warmed up. My wife swears by nerf-noodle soup—it shouldn't hurt him, anyway."

"Thank you for the advice." Qui-Gon offered him a genuine smile, handed over the necessary credits, then carefully gathered the boy into his arms to carry him into the house.

"Hold on just a moment," the driver said suddenly. He jumped out of the cab, leaving the engine idling, and hurried around to the door nearest Qui-Gon, opening an umbrella as he moved. "You're wet enough as it is," he said by way of explanation, and quietly escorted them up the walk, holding the umbrella to shield Obi-Wan's face.

But on the stoop the boy stirred in Qui-Gon's arms and opened his eyes, instantly wide-eyed and aware. "Put me down, please," he said clearly.

"It's all right," Qui-Gon said gently. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You're no burden."

"No, Qui-Gon, please . . . I want to walk inside."

Qui-Gon looked into his eyes, and understood. Obi-Wan was coming home, and he knew it. He wanted to enter on his own legs, as himself, not a helpless child in Qui-Gon's arms. It was an assertion of individuality, however small, and Qui-Gon marveled at the courage and strength it must have taken to voice this quiet request after months of having his young will continually crushed and subdued.

He gently set the boy on his feet, letting him slip outside of the cloak, just for the moment. The driver silently excused himself with a respectful nod and a quick salute that would have been humorous if it weren't so obviously heartfelt and sincere. Through the window Qui-Gon saw Julune suddenly whirl around at the sound of the groundcab leaving, her eyes wide.

Then the boy set his hand on the door, and it opened to his touch.

They were home. It was much later than it should have happened, but the sweet, sharp clarity of it still roared through Qui-Gon, dizzying him with its power. Every member of his family was finally here. No matter what problems arose, they would deal with them together, and they would be closer for their shared grief and their shared strength, bound more solidly together with every passing day. Nothing was impossible now.

Obi-Wan was home.


	28. Dreamed This Before

Obi-Wan hesitated on the threshold for a bare second, and Qui-Gon crossed quickly in out of the rain, tugging the boy with him. He had yet to release the thin shoulders, quivering with cold and fatigue and turmoil.

Julune hurried across the common room toward the door, her long skirt whipping about her ankles. "Qui-Gon! Where have you been? How dare you leave—"

She halted with one foot still lifted off the floor, dark brown eyes widening to an impossible size. Qui-Gon grinned, wishing briefly that he had a holo-camera handy. That look was priceless, and he would treasure it always.

"Obi-Wan!" It was shriek of gladness fit to split the ears, and Julune crossed the remaining distance in the flicker of an eye. She seized the boy fiercely and started raining kisses into his hair. Qui-Gon let go and stepped back just in time to avoid an elbow in the eye.

Obi-Wan giggled bashfully under the assault, wiggling uncomfortably, though not strongly enough to dissuade her. "Julune, I'm all wet . . ."

"Oh, do you honestly think I care?" Julune backed off slightly, but only to cup her hands around his cheeks and start peppering his face with kisses. She did not neglect the bruises, but touched each very gently with a whisper of a kiss, redeeming them from pain to loving welcome. "You're home, you're home! Don't you ever leave again!"

Obi-Wan closed his eyes with a sigh, and she kissed the lids, then planted one last, resounding smack on his forehead and stood back, still holding his face, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You've been hurt," she said sadly. "Oh, sweetheart, you're far too thin, and worn, and tired. You've been mistreated. But you're here now, and none of that matters."

"I didn't forget," he told her seriously, his voice soft but earnest. "You told me not to forget, and I didn't. I always remembered that you said you loved me, and sometimes that was all I had. But it was all I needed."

"Oh, my sweet child." Again she wrapped the frail, shivering figure in her arms, rocking him slightly. Her response was quiet, shaky. "I'm glad you didn't forget. It's as true now as it was then. Everything is going to be all right. You're safe at home now and everything is going to be all right."

At first he returned the embrace loosely, tentatively. But as the moments slipped by and Julune did not relax her grip, Obi-Wan's arms began to tighten around her waist, clutching forcefully, as if to assure himself of her reality. After another few moments, Qui-Gon realized that the boy was weeping, his sobs nearly silent, his body still. There was an edge of desperation in it, though, and the man understood that his boy had been longing for this moment with every fiber of his being, and now that it had finally come, he was confused, unsure of how to react. It was too much, too overwhelming—Obi-Wan had been alone and lonely, aching for touch, for too many sleepless nights and weary days.

His heart raw with this understanding, Qui-Gon stepped forward and enfolded them both in his great arms, his broad figure allowing him to do so, though his hands did not quite touch. And he rejoiced in the opportunity to do this, to hold all three of the people he held most dear to him at once. Here at last was the fulfillment of all their desires, as he and his wife clasped both of their little ones safely between them.

Soon Obi-Wan began to droop, and Julune gently drew back, still supporting much of his weight with her hands on his arms. "You're too cold, sweetie. I think a warm shower is in order. Are you hungry? I'll fix you something."

The boy shook his head slowly. "Guerra and Paxxi fed me. I'm just very tired."

"Tea, then. Qui-Gon?"

The man nodded, taking note of the strange names to ask Obi-Wan about them when he was a little more rested. He stepped forward to take over Obi-Wan's support, freeing Julune to move toward the kitchen. "A bath might be the better option." He sighed, remembering the wounds that marked the child's back, and probably elsewhere on his body as well. "Come, I'll help you to the refresher."

Once there, though, it was plain that Obi-Wan wasn't up to doing this alone. He wavered in the doorway, then turned a pleading gaze to his large guardian. It hurt Qui-Gon yet again to understand that his boy was too weary and wounded to maintain his dignity as he had before—had everything been stripped from this youngster? Every sentient right? Every shred of personal pride?

But after only a second of looking into those clouded blue-gray eyes, he changed his mind. This was trust, complete and absolute, the faith of a small child in the one he knew would always care for him, no matter the circumstances. If Qui-Gon were anyone else, the boy would not surrender so quickly and easily. This was a mark of what had survived Obi-Wan's captivity, not what had been destroyed.

Without a word, he led the boy into the 'fresher and shut the door. He began running water in the tub, turning back to find Obi-Wan struggling to lift his tunic, swaying alarmingly on his feet. Still silently, he helped the boy strip out of his sodden, torn garments and got him into the water, then knelt beside the bath and gently, carefully washed away all the dirt and blood, sorry only that he would not wash away the pain with it. Obi-Wan sat still, trembling, eyes closed in humiliation or relief, or both. His breathing sharpened when Qui-Gon touched a bad wound, but other than that he barely reacted, lifting his arms and tilting his chin when instructed, remaining completely quiescent under the man's hands.

Qui-Gon wanted to weep at every mark that laid on his boy, every welt, every bruise, every jutting bone, every evidence of cruelty and neglect, but he held it in for later. He would be strong for Obi-Wan for as long as he needed him to be. But there were so very many marks that needed to be mourned . . .

Afterward he wrapped the boy in the largest, fluffiest towels they owned and let him sit on the edge of the tub, then opened the 'fresher door to find that Julune had set a change of clean clothes on the floor outside. He smiled and brought them in, showing Obi-Wan the blue tunic and brown trousers, the thick, clean stockings. "Do you remember these? We kept them for you, after Andros Martin took you away. We knew—we hoped—that you would come back someday, and you might need them then. Julune was upset about making you leave in those too-small Jedi clothes, anyway. But then, everything upset her that day."

Obi-Wan reached out a trembling hand, trailed it wonderingly over the fabric. "I remember," he said softly. "I remember going to market. I didn't want any clothes, but Julune insisted. You bought me a flimsy of velinuts."

"That's right." Qui-Gon was inordinately pleased with this little speech. Obi-Wan had been too quiet ever since they got home—it was wonderful to hear his voice again.

"That really happened, then. I thought I might have dreamed it."

"Yes, it really happened. Let's get you into these clothes now. There's something I want to show you."

Obi-Wan submitted to being dressed, still shivering slightly, though it seemed to be more with reaction to the day's events than with cold. Qui-Gon half-carried him down the hall to the bedroom they had prepared weeks ago, and paused in the doorway to switch on the light and let Obi-Wan have a good look. "This is your room, Obi-Wan. It's been waiting for you, just like we have."

The boy looked around unsteadily, taking in the warm, rich colors, the large windows now flashing with lightning outside, the wooden desk, the big bed with its thick comforter and large pillows. Two model star fighters hung from the ceiling in the corner—Qui-Gon had bought those on impulse one day, thinking that surely all young boys liked spaceships. It was the sight of those that caused Obi-Wan to come undone now.

"How did you know?" he whispered.

Qui-Gon had no answer. They had not known, honestly, and every scrap of logic and fact said that they would probably never see Obi-Wan in person again, much less bring him home. They had only had hope without reason to guide them, but they had followed it willingly.

He shrugged gently, dismayed to feel the boy's trembling increase. "You like it, then?"

"It-It's perfect. Just perfect." Suddenly he turned to look up Qui-Gon, his eyes terrified. "Is this real?" he demanded shakily. "Am I dreaming? Will I wake up and find myself back in the slave-cell lying on the cold duracrete, listening to the other slaves sleeping? I think I've dreamed this before. Am I still dreaming?"

"It's real. You aren't dreaming." Qui-Gon knew, though, that only time would prove this to Obi-Wan. Words were not enough. He needed to know it in his bones.

Obi-Wan nodded uncertainly, still gazing around, trying to see everywhere at once, unable to truly absorb the truth of it.

Qui-Gon felt the boy half-fall against him, stifling a yawn, and squeezed his shoulders gently. "You're tired. Let's get you into bed."

It was yet another new, longed-for pleasure to sit on the edge of the bed and tuck Obi-Wan under the covers, pulling the quilt up to his chin. Obi-Wan wriggled down into the pillows, laying on his back at first, then quickly flipping over onto his stomach. His eyelids drooped, and Qui-Gon brushed the too-long hair off his forehead, letting his touch linger when the boy closed his eyes in contentment.

"Don't go anywhere, please?" he requested sleepily.

"I'm not leaving," Qui-Gon assured him. "I don't think I could bear to."

A gentle knock at the door made Obi-Wan start and jerk up onto his knees, limbs shaking, eyes wide. Qui-Gon put a steadying hand on his shoulder and looked over to find Julune holding a mug, her expression apologetic. "I didn't mean to startle you, sweetheart. Just wanted to get something hot into you before you sleep."

Obi-Wan nodded sheepishly and slumped back against the pillows. "Sorry. I'm just . . ." He shrugged, unable to complete the thought.

"It's all right. Don't apologize." With one last rub to the boy's shoulder, Qui-Gon carefully stood from the bed to let Julune take his place, holding the mug, a couple of med-tabs in her other hand.

Obi-Wan looked up at him in near panic. "Please, don't go."

"I'm just going to change into some dry clothes. I'll be right back, I promise. Julune will be with you the entire time."

The boy nodded, somewhat assured, though his eyes were still too wide, his breathing too fast. Julune gently distracted him with the tea, allowing Qui-Gon to slip away. He skinned out of his wet clothes and into comfortable sleep clothes in less time than it took to mention it, and was back in Obi-Wan's bedroom in time to hear Julune explain that the medicine was just a pain reliever. The boy took the med-tabs docilely and washed them down with tea, his face registering surprise and pleasure.

"This is good. What kind of tea is it?"

"Marjili with cinna." Julune seemed as unable to stop herself from touching the boy as Qui-Gon had been—she brushed the hair off his forehead, caressed the hand lying on the covers, and seemed a breath away from pulling him into her arms and never letting go.

"It's good." Obi-Wan drank a few more sips, then handed over the mug and slumped back against the pillows. His eyes never left Qui-Gon from the moment he re-entered the room, though, tracking every movement, making sure he was there. Julune twined her fingers through the thin, shaking ones and stayed where she was.

Qui-Gon sat on his other side. "You need to sleep now, little one. You're exhausted."

"I don't know if I can." The whispered admission seemed wrung from him, the pale lips twisting slightly in self-abasement. "I'm . . . I'm scared." He blushed, but did not look away, unwilling to take his eyes from Qui-Gon's face.

"Scared that you'll wake up somewhere else, that this will be a dream?"

The boy nodded reluctantly, but there was more there, peeking reluctantly out through his eyes.

Qui-Gon sighed, shoulders slumping. "Scared I won't be here?"

Obi-Wan blushed yet more hotly, but nodded slowly. "Sorry," he said thickly, almost too quietly to be heard.

"There's no shame in it, little one." Qui-Gon carefully laid down on his side, facing Obi-Wan, and relaxed into the bed. He willed him to see the truth in his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."

The boy hesitated for a moment, staring fixedly at him, then turned over on his stomach, head turned toward Qui-Gon. Rather than let go of his hand, Julune simply lay down next to him, letting her arm stretch across Obi-Wan as the youngster reached for Qui-Gon. The man folded his hand over the entwined fingers of his wife and their boy, holding firmly. He flooded the Force around them with warmth and safety, even though he wasn't sure if Obi-Wan could feel it.

Immediately Obi-Wan's eyes began to droop, though they languidly re-opened several times, checking to make sure Qui-Gon was still there. At last they did not open again, and they knew he was asleep. Still Qui-Gon and Julune just lay there. They listened to their little-boy-lost breathe, listened to the fury of the storm, safely shut away outside the walls of their home. After a while Qui-Gon reached out with a tendril of the Force and turned off the light in the room, leaving only the lamp in the hall shedding a pale radiance in the open door, occasional bursts of lightning flaring through like an erratically strobing sun.

"So I take it you left to fetch Obi-Wan?" Julune asked, quietly in deference to the sleeping boy, but with an edge of anger and pain beneath her tone.

"I'm sorry, dearheart." Qui-Gon squeezed her fingers contritely, his voice subdued. "I shouldn't have left without a word like that. But Obi-Wan commed, and he was at the spaceport, and the storm was coming—I barely took time to grab my cloak before I ran out the door. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to cause you worry." He carefully lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of hers, letting his lips mold softly over the delicate flesh, though he didn't dare push the kiss any farther.

Julune left him in silent agony for a moment, then sighed. "I forgive you." One finger poked out to point at him accusingly. "But only because you brought me a very nice apology present, you understand."

He chuckled quietly. "I understand. I'll never do it again."

"You'd better not. Leave without a word, I mean, not bring Obi-Wan back."

"It won't be a problem. We'll never let him out of our sight again."

"No. No, we won't." Julune rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling with another sigh. "How is his back? You got a look at it in the 'fresher, didn't you?"

Qui-Gon made an affirmative noise. He should have known—she must have felt it when she hugged the boy. Julune had always been more observant and sensitive than most people gave her credit for. "Nothing was bleeding, thank the Force, and they seemed to be healing, as if someone had tended them already. But a few looked infected. We should take him to the med-center tomorrow."

Julune grunted. "He won't want to go. We'll have to make him, as gently and kindly as possible, of course. Did he tell you how he managed to escape?"

"No. He didn't want to talk about it, any of it. But something terrible happened to him. Something worse than being sold into slavery, being beaten, starved, used. I haven't felt him touch the Force. He hasn't even tried. He always lived in it so easily and joyfully, Julune. And now that's gone. Our Obi-Wan has been changed."

For a long moment she was silent, just taking in what he had said, trying to understand. At last she drew in a deep breath and said firmly, "But he is still our Obi-Wan."

"Yes. He is."


	29. Flinching

Qui-Gon opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, watching the morning light wash over the textured surface and wondering why it looked different than the ceiling in his room. And why he was laying at the very edge of the bed, alone, when he and his wife usually slept completely wrapped around each other in the middle. And why Julune hadn't woken him before she left.

A small, subdued whimper snapped his head around to the side, and he saw the boy sleeping curled up into a protective ball, his face hidden against his knees. Instantly everything rushed back, joy and pain and relief and sorrow. Sometime in the night he must have slipped under the covers, and Obi-Wan had drawn into himself, clasping his arms to his chest as if to protect them. Julune was nowhere in sight, and it was late enough that she had probably left for work already.

Another tiny moan of distress from Obi-Wan had Qui-Gon scrambling to untangle himself from the covers and scoot closer to the boy, reaching out to lay a hand over his head. Obi-Wan flinched at the touch and curled himself tighter, beginning to tremble. Qui-Gon sighed soundlessly. The universe couldn't allow this beleaguered youngster even one undisturbed night, could it? Not even when he was utterly exhausted, when he had finally come home to the only place he felt safe, though obviously not safe enough.

"Obi-Wan," he called softly, smoothing his hand over the unruly reddish locks. "Obi-Wan. Wake now. All is well. You must wake up now. Obi-Wan!"

Obi-Wan woke with a start, his breathing ragged and loud, then instantly stilled himself, laying frozen, holding his breath. He did not seem aware of his surroundings, of Qui-Gon. Even without a working bond, Qui-Gon could feel his overwhelming terror, his certainty that something terrible was about to happen.

"Obi-Wan," he said sadly. "I won't hurt you. That's past and gone, little one. You're safe now. No one will touch you here."

Obi-Wan lay paralyzed for another moment, then suddenly pulled in a deep, shaky breath, then another one. Slowly, achingly hesitant and uncertain, he raised his face from its hiding place and stared at Qui-Gon with wide, dilated eyes. Gradually they focused, and his face relaxed somewhat in recognition, though he remained quiet and still, just looking at Qui-Gon, waiting for his reaction.

Qui-Gon tentatively caressed his cheek with his fingertips, wanting—needing—to touch the boy, but unwilling to frighten him. Obi-Wan did not flinch this time, but he didn't respond, either. Still, Qui-Gon was encouraged.

"Was it a vision or a dream?" He voiced his question carefully, unsure if the boy would want to answer. But he needed to know what was going on; he was desperate to know, to understand, so he could help the youngster begin his healing.

Obi-Wan's breath hitched, but he seemed relatively calm, only a flicker of a blink revealing any distress. Still, he had not uncurled from his fetal position. "It . . . it was a dream," he said at last, his voice slightly rough and cracked. "I haven't had the visions for a long time."

Qui-Gon waited, but Obi-Wan did not volunteer any more information. "Would you like to tell me about it?" he asked finally, cautiously. "I'd like to know, if you don't mind. If you think it might help."

The boy's gaze shifted uneasily away, and Qui-Gon understood immediately that there would be no answers this morning. Maybe later, when Obi-Wan felt safe and comfortable again, when the worst wounds were healed, maybe then he would be willing to talk. Even now he might respond to an order, but Qui-Gon did not want to walk that path. Too many choices had been denied this child, too much had been asked, demanded, taken from him. Under no circumstances would Qui-Gon ever do anything to remind Obi-Wan of the evil men who had controlled his life, not if he could help it.

"This isn't a dream," Obi-Wan said, looking about the room with slightly more confidence, slowly beginning to uncurl. "I truly thought it was."

"It isn't," Qui-Gon agreed quietly.

"I think . . . I think I'm starting to believe that."

"Good." He dared to touch his boy's cheek again, and was delighted beyond words when Obi-Wan turned his head slightly, leaning into the touch. "Good."

X

It was the smell of food drifting in the open doorway that finally hauled Qui-Gon onto his feet and into the hallway, his stomach beginning to whine with hunger. Before he was two steps away from the door, though, he heard a frantic rustling of cloth in Obi-Wan's bedroom, then quick footsteps, and the boy joined him, looking a little pale around the edges. Qui-Gon paused contritely and put a gentle hand on the slim, trembling shoulder, assuring the youngster of his presence.

"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. I didn't mean to leave you without a word like that. But I think I smell breakfast. Perhaps Julune left something in the oven for us."

Obi-Wan nodded shakily, but wordlessly reached up to grab Qui-Gon's sleeve in sharp, clenched fingers that revealed just how close to the surface the panic had risen. Qui-Gon could not blame him. But he wondered, a trifle wistfully, how long it would be before the child believed that this was true, that he wasn't going anywhere, that safety was no longer an abstract concept but solid reality.

He pulled the boy up to his side and walked with him toward the kitchen, half of his attention taken with Obi-Wan's reactions to this first look at his new home that wasn't clouded with exhaustion and darkened by a storm. The house was full of light that seemed to all but drift tangibly in the air, floating through the big windows that lined every wall. This half of the house had no flat ceiling, only the high wooden rafters lifting to the point of the roof, which was painted a light, airy white chased with designs of twining branches and leaves in dark green, the rooms separated by solid ten-foot partitions. It had almost the character of a cathedral or temple, combined with the coziness and personality of a home. He could feel Obi-Wan relaxing slightly as he took it in, blinking around in a bit of a daze.

A gentle humming from the kitchen alerted Qui-Gon to the fact that Julune had not gone to work, after all, and they entered to find her putting the last touches on a massive meal, steaming platters on the table, pitchers of juice, bowls of fruit, a pot of tea. Qui-Gon blinked in something like shock. Julune almost never had these fits of domesticity—they usually just took turns preparing simple, easy, familiar meals that they both enjoyed. It was somewhat hit or miss whether these bursts of homeliness would be successful or not, and he was not above being brutally honest about just how awful this or that new recipe had turned out.

He must have made some sound of surprise, for she turned to greet them with a brilliant, sunny smile, opening her arms in welcome. "Good morning, my fine, handsome men! I hope you're hungry!"

Obi-Wan nodded readily, and Qui-Gon turned to squint down at him. "You are?"

"Yes, very," the boy said, nonplussed, blinking up at him innocently. Then he blushed. "Oh, you mean like before . . . No, it was different this time. I was very grateful for any food I got. Guerra and Paxxi did feed me yesterday, but that was yesterday."

Qui-Gon couldn't help but grin broadly at this evidence of a typical teenage boy asserting himself, the normal bottomless pit they all were at this age.

Julune was no less delighted. "Good, then, perhaps you'll do justice to my handiwork! I tell you, it's harder than it looks. Come now, sit down, sit down."

They sat willingly, and observed a moment of silence before beginning, Qui-Gon inwardly thanking the Force with overwhelming gratitude for the gift of having Obi-Wan sitting here with them. For a moment the emotion was almost too much, and he might have started weeping right there at the table. But then Obi-Wan's stomach squeaked insistently, and Julune made a noise that was half exasperation, half pure joy, and started serving him.

Both adults spent more time filling Obi-Wan's plate then attending to their own, and the boy was soon digging in to an enormous pile of food, his small, satisfied noises assuring Julune that her hard work was well-appreciated. For a time there was only contented silence as Obi-Wan concentrated on the serious business of eating as much as he could as quickly as he could. The Jinns ate, too, but barely noticed, finding much more pleasure in watching their lost-and-found boy enjoy his meal.

Eventually Obi-Wan realized that they were both looking at him fixedly, and glanced up, his eyes wide, hand frozen halfway to his mouth with another buttered roll. His gaze flicked nervously between them, and Qui-Gon quickly cleared his throat and looked to his wife, urging her to break off her scrutiny. "So, Julune, are you not going to work today?"

"I called in and requested some time off for family matters," she said easily, quickly following his lead. "I have free time laid up waiting, so it's no trouble. I might go in this afternoon for a couple of hours to do paperwork, though, while you're occupied elsewhere."

Out of the corner of his eye Qui-Gon saw Obi-Wan resume his enthusiastic food-shoveling, and continued their conversation, talking easily about mundane matters. Eventually Obi-Wan sat back with a satisfied sigh, one hand falling into his lap while the other held his juice cup, and he gently turned his attention back to the boy. It was time to ask a few question, hopefully easy ones this time. It was still up to Obi-Wan to answer or not as he chose, but he hoped that the boy would feel more comfortable and open now.

"Who are Guerra and Paxxi?" he asked. "You've mentioned them twice now. Were they kind to you?"

The boy nodded readily. "Oh, yes, very kind. They took me away from . . . from . . . well, I don't remember the name of the planet." His brow furrowed momentarily, but quickly cleared. He seemed to be avoiding the bad memories purposely. Not particularly surprising, but not exactly a good sign, either. "Anyway, I escaped and ran into the spaceport. I was lucky to find them, Guerra and Paxxi Derrida, brothers from Phindar. They went out of their way to take me here, and Guerra tended my back, too, and talked to me a lot so I wouldn't be frightened."

Qui-Gon nodded encouragingly, suppressing his frown. Obi-Wan had spoken of "luck," which he knew was not a Jedi concept. Was the boy avoiding thinking of the Force, too? He would be wise to test these waters very carefully.

"Did they remove the Force-collar for you, too?" He tentatively reached out to touch the fading welt on Obi-Wan's neck.

He had heard stories of these abominations used by unscrupulous slavers, even encountered one in his days as a wanderer. It had been in a curiosities shop on an Outer Rim planet, and he had felt the discordant buzzing of its presence in the Force as soon as he entered the door. It had made him feel ill, cold, on edge, even before he touched it. He had bought the horrible thing and destroyed it, ensuring that it could never be used against another Force-sensitive.

Obi-Wan was strong in the Force, and Andros Martin knew it. The red line that circled Obi-Wan's neck now could have been caused by a regular slave-collar, or a thin rope, or any number of other nasty items. But Qui-Gon did not need extraordinary instincts to know that this was not the case.

The boy flinched away from Qui-Gon's finger before it touched the raised mark on his neck, then immediately stilled himself, his gaze on the table in front of him. "No," he murmured. "It wasn't Guerra and Paxxi."

Qui-Gon shifted his hand's momentum without pause, and let it rest on the boy's shoulder. At least Obi-Wan didn't cringe from that, not yet anyway. But the man could see that any more questioning along this line would soon have the boy retreating into himself again, closing up, flinching at every movement, waiting for punishment. Forgetting that he was safe now and no one would hurt him. It would not take much to push Obi-Wan over that thin edge, back into the self-protective behaviors he had learned as a slave. And Qui-Gon did not want that. Not at all.

So, for now, he backed away. He started talking about the garden, the various strange and interesting species he and Julune had gathered from all over the galaxy. Julune joined in, and they fell into their usual easy pattern of teasing and planning and reminiscing. Qui-Gon did not remove his hand from Obi-Wan's shoulder, and eventually, the boy raised his juice to his lips and took another sip. As if that was the signal for a return to normality, or at least what passed for normality now, the boy instantly relaxed and went back to swinging his legs as he had before, listening to the Jinns' conversation with wide-eyed interest.

Qui-Gon knew that he was only putting off the inevitable. All of this would have to be discussed, more for Obi-Wan's well-being than to satisfy his own curiosity. But surely it could wait for a few hours while the boy began to feel safe and at home.

This was only the beginning.


	30. The Beginning

They had gone back to the beginning.

Only it was much, much worse this time.

Qui-Gon tried to halt the downward spiral his thoughts were taking, and managed to distract himself, chatting with Julune and Obi-Wan, focusing on the task of washing the dishes. But the weary litany continued in the back of his mind. _Gone back. We've gone all the way back to the start, and further still. How long will it take to return to where we were? Will we ever get there?_

Strange how such a simple thing could affect him so deeply. It seemed that many simple things had that power, lately. A word, a look, a gesture. Past and present meshed and clashed in his mind, the edges sharply painful where they met, inflamed, grinding, each trying to take over the other.

Obi-Wan had asked to help clean up after breakfast. At any other time, from any other child, this would have been nothing worthy of note. It might even be something to evoke pleasure or pride—most children were not eager to do chores.

But Qui-Gon had seen it in the boy's eyes. The desperation. The need for acceptance, belonging, to make himself a place where he was not a burden. It was all wrong. All, all wrong. This was the way it had been when they first brought Obi-Wan into their home back on Bandomeer, when he was shaky and uncertain, lonely and afraid. This was the way a guest acted, one who was unsure of his welcome. This was not Obi-Wan as he had been when Andros Martin had taken him away.

Qui-Gon badly wanted to confront the boy on this, but could not find the words. How does one accuse a child of feeling uncomfortable? What words could convey his concern over this regression? If he told the boy that his help was not necessary, he would feel rejected, unwanted. Weak, useless. Lost. All the things that he did not want his boy to feel in this house.

The comm trilled, sharp sound echoing in the spacious kitchen. Obi-Wan started violently and dropped the dish he was holding, but Qui-Gon bent smoothly and plucked it from the air before it struck the floor. He straightened and gently brushed his hand over the boy's messy head, now lowered as he stared at the floor. "It's all right," he murmured.

Obi-Wan did not respond, and Qui-Gon sighed silently as he set the dish on the counter and reached for the comm. He flipped on the audio only, unsure of who was calling. "Jinn residence. This is Qui-Gon speaking."

"Jinn! You old pirate! How's it hanging? Loose and floppy or tight and ready?"

Qui-Gon felt his face relax into a broad, happy grin, and quickly hit the vid button. "Guber Triln! You hit planetside already?"

The face of the old arms-runner, bearded, scarred, weathered with too many parsecs and too much lomin-ale, flickered into existence. "Four hours early. Told you so. You ready to go find your kid?"

Qui-Gon blinked. In the chaotic joy of bringing Obi-Wan home, he'd forgotten about why his old friend was coming to Thyferra. All of the terror and anxiety had been completely forgotten, wiped cleanly away like a smear of dust from a window, letting the sun shine through glorious and bright. "Oh, yeah. About that . . ."

The wrinkles in Guber's face deepened considerably as he frowned. "Two days ago you were so scared for the boy that were practically hyperventilating as you begged me to come as fast as I could, and now it's just 'About that'? What's up, Qui-Gon?"

"Well . . ." Qui-Gon reached out with one long arm and snagged Obi-Wan's shoulder, pulling him gently over in front of the comm. "He found us, Guber. This is Obi-Wan. He came home." And he began to laugh, fully and deeply. "Can you believe it? He's here!"

For a moment Guber just stared at the boy through the comm, taking in the bruises, the shyly down-cast eyes, the way he gripped the fabric of Qui-Gon's shirt in his fist. Then he grinned, gaze flicking back to Qui-Gon. "I can see that there's a story behind this. It can wait 'til you're ready for visitors, though. Since we came all this way, the crew might as well have a little vacation. Thyferra's a nice planet."

"Oh dear." Qui-Gon sobered quickly, looking gravely at his old friend. "I'm not going to hear any stories about trashed cantinas and traumatized security people, am I? Am I going to have to pretend I don't know you yet again?"

"Oh, no. Of course not."

Qui-Gon did not believe that exaggeratedly innocent tone, not in the slightest, but he didn't really want to get into it right now. "Very well, then. I'll give you a comm when things have settled down a bit, and you can come over and visit. It's good to see you, old friend."

"Likewise." Guber flipped an insolent little salute and signed off.

Obi-Wan slipped out from under Qui-Gon's arm and returned to the sink, taking a freshly-washed dish from Julune's hand and beginning to dry it without a word. Qui-Gon looked at him with a small frown for a moment, then moved back to resume his previous position, putting the dishes away in the cupboards as Obi-Wan finished drying them. Eventually he and Julune might buy a droid to take care of these small household tasks, but for now there was comfort and peace, even pleasure, in working together in easy silence, their combined efforts making the time pass quickly. The pleasure was thrice-multiplied with Obi-Wan joining them, as well. Everything would be that way, Qui-Gon knew, and he was glad.

After a few moments, though, he finally realized what the conversation with Guber Triln signified. He paused, set down the latest dish, and turned to look at his wife over Obi-Wan's head.

"You know, they don't know yet that Obi-Wan is safe."

Her eyes glinted with amusement, the corner of her mouth turning up in a smile. "I wondered how long it would take for that to occur to you. This was actually sooner that I expected."

He nodded decisively. "I should call Master Yoda at the Temple."

Qui-Gon stepped back over to the comm and began to stretch his hand toward the numpad.

"No! Please don't!"

The sharp cry startled Qui-Gon, and he turned back. Obi-Wan stood trembling, facing him, eyes wide and panicked, the towel drooping in his nerveless fingers. Julune looked back at him, her eyes frightened and confused.

"Obi-Wan?"

"Please don't call the Temple, Qui-Gon. Please don't. Don't . . . Please, Qui-Gon!"

Qui-Gon heart wrenched at the terror on his boy's face. Though he did not understand, he quickly stood back from the comm, hands open and out-stretched in conciliation. "It's all right, Obi-Wan. It's all right." He tried to make his voice as quiet and soothing as possible. "Why don't you just tell me why you're upset?"

"I . . . I . . ."

The boy's knees began to buckle, and Qui-Gon was there before he sank to the floor, catching him in his arms, kneeling on one knee to be on level with him. "Tell me, Obi-Wan," he encouraged softly, guiding the quivering head to rest on his shoulder. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I . . . I don't want to go back. Please, Qui-Gon! I don't want to be a Jedi. I don't want to go to the Agri-Corps. Please don't send me away." The boy was babbling now, the words tumbling out in a frightened rush and building rapidly toward hysteria. "I'll be good, I promise. I'll do whatever you want, be whatever you want, but please, please don't send me away. I don't want to be a Jedi. I don't want . . . don't want . . . please! Don't call the Temple!"

"Shh, Obi-Wan, shhhhh." It was a gentle whisper, strained with tears. He stroked the tangled red-gold locks with trembling fingers, swaying back and forth. Suddenly it all made sense, and it hurt incredibly. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, little one. I don't want you to go away, either. I'd never send you away. Never. You belong to me now, Obi-Wan. You belong to me, and you're not going anywhere."

He repeated the mantra over and over again, rocking the shaking child in his arms. "You belong to me. You belong to me. I'll never send you away."

Gradually Obi-Wan's shaking began to ease. His arms rose, tentatively, then slipped around Qui-Gon's neck and tightened with all the strength of his fear, the side of his face crushed against the man's scratchy beard. "Do you mean it?" he whispered. "Do you really, truly mean it?"

"Yes. Yes, I mean it." Qui-Gon looked up, still keeping his temple pressed against the boy's, and met Julune's anguished eyes staring at them from her position frozen beside the sink. She understood the message in his gaze and nodded once, firmly, then quietly left the kitchen.

Obi-Wan still trembled, though not as violently. "You—you truly do? You aren't just saying that so I'll be quiet?"

"No, Obi-Wan. I don't want you to be quiet. I want you to tell me what you're feeling. I want you tell me when you're hurt or afraid or even just lonely, so I can help you as much as I can. I want you to yell, if you need to, scream and cry and sob."

"But you really mean it?" Obi-Wan's mind was obviously stuck on one subject right now. "I belong to you? You don't want me to go to the Temple or the Agri-Corps?"

"No, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon held the boy even tighter, aware of the wounds on his back but certain that this was more important right now. "I don't want to ever let you out of my sight again. You're my boy now, mine and Julune's. The Jedi can't have you, and that certainly counts for the Agri-Corps, too. You belong to me."

Still the boy shook, arms so tight about Qui-Gon's neck that he began to wheeze for breath, though he tried desperately not to be obvious about it. He didn't want Obi-Wan to let go.

"Obi-Wan, sweetheart, would you like me to prove it to you?"

The boy froze momentarily in astonishment, obviously not believing that this was possible, then nodded against Qui-Gon's neck. "Please," he rasped.

Qui-Gon glanced up, saw Julune waiting for them. "Come now," he said with infinite tenderness, carefully tugging the boy up. "Come sit at the table."

He helped the boy up with his hands about his waist, one slender young arm still wrapped around his neck, and half-carried him over to Julune. Gently he eased him into the chair, kneeling beside him, still stroking his hair. Julune silently spread the duraplast documents out on the table in front of them, then sat and put her hand on Obi-Wan's knee, squeezing gently to remind him of her presence and her love.

Obi-Wan stared at the spread documents, his mouth hanging slightly open, lips quivering, obviously unable to take it in. "What . . . what is this?"

"These are adoption documents, my little one," Qui-Gon said softly, sliding his hand downward to clasp the chilled skin at the nape of Obi-Wan's neck. "Master Heim Shilbey prepared them for us before we left Bandomeer. We were going to talk to you about them, but we never had a chance."

"Adop-adoption documents? But . . . why? Who?"

"You, sweetie," Julune said. "We want to adopt you. We want you to be our son."

Obi-Wan blinked rapidly, then slowly raised one hand to cover his mouth, his other arm again tightening about Qui-Gon's neck.

"It's all ready," the man explained. "Heim Shilbey set the process in motion for the Jedi Temple to relinquish guardianship of you. That part was surprisingly easy. Julune and I already signed it where our signatures are necessary. We did that before . . . before Martin came. Then we . . . we put them away, kept them in a box. We thought we would never need them. But now . . ."

He had to pause to breathe. Force, this was hard to say. "We never stopped wanting you, Obi-Wan. We let you go, but we see now that we shouldn't have. I'm sorry we failed you so badly. This is your choice, not ours. Do you want this? Do you want to be our son?"

Obi-Wan turned his head slightly, staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "You . . . you're asking me this?"

Qui-Gon sighed through his nose. He should have known that this was too soon. It was too much, too overwhelming. It was too much to ask from a boy who had suffered far too much in the past few months. But he had to answer truthfully. "Yes . . . I'm asking you this. I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't be pushing this on you now . . ."

"No." The firmness in Obi-Wan's voice startled him, and he looked up to find those blue-green eyes steady, the dimpled chin firm. "What I meant was . . . You thought you had to ask?" The young head shook slowly. "Where do I sign?"

Julune produced a stylus and carefully laid it on the table, then pointed to an empty line on the first page, another on the third, a last on the sixth. Obi-Wan picked up the stylus. His hand was shaking, and he stared at it until it stopped, then set it against the first line.

"Wait." Qui-Gon gently laid a his hand over the small one against the duraplast, and turned to look the boy fully in the eyes. "Are you sure you want this? This is forever, little one." _Like our bond was supposed to be,_ he thought with old, familiar pain. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" A dozen emotions were poured into that one shouted word, pain and joy, love and grief, fear and relief, and most of all, frustration. "I want this, Qui-Gon. I want to belong to you. Forever!"

Reassured, Qui-Gon gently released his hand and leaned back, smiling through his tears. "All right, all right. I just wanted to make sure."

Obi-Wan nodded firmly, and signed his name once, twice, a third time. Then he tossed the stylus down and fell off the chair into Qui-Gon's ready embrace, sobbing uncontrollably. Julune joined them in only a moment, wrapping her arms around her men with a contented sigh.

They sat there on the floor for a long time, finally the family they should have been from the beginning. Time had no meaning—they were in a place beyond it, aware only of each other, of the feelings that flowed freely between them. There were questions to be asked, decisions to be made, people to be commed, documents to be registered, but none of that mattered. There was only the Jinn family sitting on the cool kitchen floor in the brilliant light of morning, so supremely happy that it did not seem possible that less than twenty-four hours ago all three of them had been desperately miserable.

"Are you my papa now?" Obi-Wan asked eventually, his voice soft and amazed. "And my mama?"

"That's right, son. That's right. And soon you're going to be a big brother."

Obi-Wan just a took another breath of joy and burrowed deeper into their arms.

"And is it all right if I comm the Temple now?" What a joy it was, to dare to tease this precious boy, and to feel him smiling.

"I suppose. As long as it's quick."

Qui-Gon laughed in delight, and pressed him a little tighter.


	31. Letters of Red

Qui-Gon would have been perfectly content to stay just where they were for the rest of the day. But eventually he became aware of the fact that his body was starting to ache everywhere it touched the tiled floor, that Julune's grip had loosened slightly, probably as she began to think about something else, and that Obi-Wan was no longer as completely relaxed as he had been. In fact, the boy was beginning to fill with tension again, his arms wrapped as far around Qui-Gon's chest as they would go. Something was obviously troubling him.

The man waited, though, hoping that his brand-new son would find the strength to voice his concern on his own, without being asked. He concentrated everything he had on being as open and willing as possible, hoping that it would somehow be conveyed to Obi-Wan.

It seemed to work. After a time the boy shifted slightly against him, and drew in a breath to speak. "Qui-Gon . . ."

"You know, you could call me a different name, if you wanted to." He caught his breath, suddenly doubtful. Was it too soon to ask for this?

But Obi-Wan relaxed marginally, resting his head more heavily on Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Yes, I know." It was a breathless murmur, fraught with joy that superseded the tension. "You're . . . you're my father. My papa. _My_ Qui-Gon. Papa Qui-Gon."

And oh, this was a joy too wide and too deep for words. Qui-Gon could only smile fit to split his face, his cheek still pressed against the bright head of his boy, no longer the son only of his heart. It was like an explosion of sparks in his head, spinning away in a delighted dance that shrieked his glee to be heard and seen by all the stars and galaxies. _This is my son, my son, and he called me his papa!_

Obi-Wan, too, shivered with pleasure, squeezing Qui-Gon a little tighter. He seemed to distance himself, though, as he remembered. "There's something I need to tell you . . ."

"Anything, my Obi-Wan. You can tell me anything."

It was a shudder of dread, this time, that caused the slender arms to tighten. "I feel wrong not letting you know. I should have told you last night, before you brought me home. You might have changed your mind if you knew . . ." He drew in a hard breath, held it, let it go. "Qui-Gon, Papa Qui-Gon, they're going to come after me."

Qui-Gon pulled in a breath, and felt Julune stiffen beside them. "Who? Miko Belimi?" The name was engraved on his mind, a painful burning brand, letters of red that demanded something dark to snuff them. "The man who held you as a slave, who beat and abused you? I won't let him touch you, son." This, at least, he was completely and utterly sure of, and his voice was adamantine-firm, fueled with a deep, dark rage he had not yet acknowledged, though he knew he needed to deal with it soon. "He will never lay a hand on you again."

 _I'll kill him first._ It wasn't something that Obi-Wan needed to hear, but Qui-Gon thought it, even so.

Julune nodded, reaching across to smooth the boy's head, though it did not ease his sudden trembling. "And how would he know where you've gone? He doesn't even know that we exist, unless you mentioned us at some point. He wouldn't know to come here."

"No." Obi-Wan's voice was a bare whisper, stark with terror. "But Andros Martin does."

"Andros Martin?" Another name that was engraved in red fire. "You said that all he did was sell you into slavery. Why would he come after you again?"

Now the boy was locked again in that dark silence, beginning to shake despite the arms that held him close and warm. Qui-Gon could feel the terror rising in him again, overtaking his reason, subsuming the joy and peace they had known only a few moments ago.

"Obi-Wan. Son." He spoke in a gentle whisper, his hand moving over the slender, shivering back in calming circles. "What happened to you?"

Obi-Wan shook harder.

"Please, sweetheart. Please tell us. We need to understand so we can protect you."

The boy drew in a shuddering breath. "You should send me away," he said tearfully. "I'm sorry, I should have gone, I shouldn't have come here, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm putting you in danger! Please, tear up those documents and send me away!"

"No! Never!" Qui-Gon tried to draw back to look into his son's face, but Obi-Wan clung to him, pressing his face against his shoulder. Incredible that a youngster so worn and thin could muster this much energy. He was running on pure adrenaline, utter terror dictating his actions—terror not for himself, but for the two adults who had made themselves his parents

"Obi-Wan, we will never give you up!" Qui-Gon said fiercely. "You're ours now, ours forever. You belong to Julune and me, and we will never, never send you away. If you're truly certain that someone will come after you, then we'll take measures to protect you. We'll call the Thyferran security and have them watch out, we'll move away, we'll even get a Jedi if we have to. But we will never let you go."

"You should, though." It was a shuddering whisper, heavy with misery. "You should. You should get rid of me just as soon as you can. I'm not worth the trouble."

"Oh, what utter nonsense!" Julune cried in something very like fury. Obi-Wan flinched, and she quickly wrapped her arm further around him, impeding Qui-Gon's back-rubbing somewhat. "Sorry," she muttered, not very contritely. "My poor, sweet child, is this what three months of slavery has done with you? Made you believe this terrible lie? You are worth all the trouble in the universe, and don't you ever doubt it for an instant!"

"You needn't fear for us," Qui-Gon said in the most reassuring tone he could manage, hiding his anger at what had been done to his son's sweet, innocent spirit, this utter lack of self-worth. "Sometime when you feel better, let me take you to a shooting range and show you what I can do with a blaster. And Julune is not much worse than I am—I've taught her just about everything I know. I'll teach you, too. I spent years traveling the galaxy, doing whatever came to hand, and I am quite proficient as a fighter. Not quite the warrior a Jedi would be, perhaps, but I can hold my own, even against most Force-sensitives. Andros Martin will never touch you while I stand, and I will not fall."

Obi-Wan sighed, slumping down against his father's chest, and Qui-Gon dared to believe that they might have gotten through to him, at least partially. After a moment, though, he realized that boy was fairly quivering with exhaustion. He had worn himself out in the past hour, and Qui-Gon wasn't feeling exactly fresh and perky, either.

"Now, Obi-Wan," he said after a time, when they had settled down a bit, the taut strings of tension relaxing. "I know how you feel about couches and napping, but will you at least rest for a bit? You must be tired. I'll comm Master Yoda myself, though I know he'll want to talk to you when you're up to it. He truly seems to care for you."

The boy nodded wearily. "I know he does. I wouldn't want to make him wait any longer. But no, I don't want to talk to him just yet."

"That's fine. You don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

Qui-Gon climbed carefully to his feet, drawing his son and wife up with him. Julune kept a hand on each male shoulder, and Obi-Wan still had not released his torso, so it was a somewhat awkward procession that made its way into the common room and over to the biggest, fluffiest couch they owned. There Qui-Gon tried to settle his boy down, mindful that Obi-Wan didn't like him to get out of his sight. He would wait 'til Obi-Wan was more relaxed, if not asleep, before he departed to make his comm calls.

Julune seemed to sense his dilemma. She started singing one of those sweet, slow folk songs she loved, her rich, earthy voice weaving tenderly through the morning-lit air. Gradually Obi-Wan's attention shifted from his father to his mother, blinking slowly, watching her past a veil of weariness, fingers moving through the fringe at the edge of the afghan Julune had spread over him. He didn't flinch or protest when Qui-Gon made his way to his feet again, then into the kitchen, trying to keep himself in eye-sight through the open doorway.

He had to step out of sight to reach the comm, though, and he silently vowed to make it a short conversation. The Twi'lek receptionist knew him, now, and let him through without murmur. Yoda was already there, apparently waiting for the call. Had he known, somehow? Qui-Gon wouldn't put it past the little green master.

"Greetings, Qui-Gon Jinn. Tidings you have of our lost child?" His face was Jedi-calm, revealing neither hope nor despair, but Qui-Gon did not miss the spark of interest in those large yellow eyes.

Qui-Gon felt his face break into a broad grin, joy bubbling up again. It was never far from the surface now, no matter what other troubles tried to cloud it. "Yes, I do. And it is good news indeed!"

The sparkle in Master Yoda's eyes intensified, even brightened, as Qui-Gon quickly related all that he knew, how Obi-Wan had been sold into slavery, but escaped and found his way to the people who cared for him above all others. He finished his breathless account with what had happened that very morning, how they made him their son in fact as well as in heart.

"All we need to do is register the documents with the record-keepers on Coruscant, and send a copy to the Thyferran capitol to begin the process of making him a legal citizen here. Obi-Wan is ours now, and no one will take him away."

He said that last a bit challengingly, unsure of how the Jedi would respond to this. When he said no one, he meant no one, especially not those who had had a claim on his boy earlier in his life, and used that responsibility so callously.

But Yoda did not seem in the least put off. "Very good news this is, indeed yes! It brings great joy to my heart to learn this, and very glad I will be to spread the news to others among the Jedi who were concerned for Obi-Wan. But there is something else you have to tell me, yes?"

Qui-Gon hesitated, then plunged on. It didn't matter if Yoda believed this part or not— _he_ believed it, and he would do whatever was necessary to take care of his child. "Obi-Wan believes that the people who kidnapped him may come back again—no, he believes without doubt that they will. I assured him that we will do everything we can to defend him, even to asking for Jedi protection. Is this possible, or is it too small a matter for the Jedi Order?"

"Hmm." Yoda tapped his chin thoughtfully with one clawed finger. "No, not too small a matter this is, especially if believe you do that this Martin can touch the Force. This is very much a matter for the Jedi, and see to it I will that someone is sent to you as soon as it can be done."

Qui-Gon nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. It was a relief to be believed, to have his fears taken seriously, and suddenly he understood a little more what Obi-Wan had been feeling not long ago. He vowed to take more care in the future not to discard his son's fears, though he knew that they would probably be wide and varied now, with all that the child had suffered. "Thank you, Master Yoda. I am greatly relieved to know that. Though I would prefer to take care of this amongst ourselves, any extra protection can only be a good thing, and I will do whatever it takes to make sure my son is safe."

Yoda nodded solemnly. "Know this I do. Obi-Wan has found a mighty defender in you, Qui-Gon Jinn, and glad I am to learn this. Will it be permitted for me to speak to him soon?"

"I hope so. I promised him that he could wait until he was ready, but he knows that you are a friend to him, despite all he's been through. You could try comming in a couple of days, if you like."

"I will. Thank you again, Master Jinn. Farewell. Be sure to comm Master Heim Shilbey."

Qui-Gon grinned. "I will. Farewell, Master Yoda."

The comm to Shilbey wasn't much different, though the human man was much more willing to show his relief and joy. He, too, wanted to talk to Obi-Wan, but accepted that the boy needed more time. And he also seemed genuinely happy that the Jinns had adopted the youngster, which Qui-Gon was glad to see. He hadn't been sure how the Agri-Corps manager would react to that particular bit of news. But Shilbey seemed pleased with anything that made Obi-Wan more safe and secure. Qui-Gon's regard for the hard-bitten man went up another notch.

After saying farewell, he stood staring at the comm for a moment, reflecting on the conversations he'd just completed. He snapped out of it, though, when he realized that Julune was no longer singing, but talking to their new son with a slightly stern tone. Curious and just a bit alarmed, he quickly stepped back into the common room.

"Well, let's try it this way, then," Julune was saying. "You're my son now, right?"

Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly, his hands fidgeting with the afghan.

"And that means you'll obey me when I ask you to do something, right?"

The boy looked suddenly very nervous, eyes darting past her to look pleadingly at Qui-Gon, and she melted immediately. "Oh, sweetheart, that wasn't what I meant. You know I would only ask you to do things for your own good, don't you? I love you. I'm not your master. No one is. You belong to me as my son, not as a slave. No one will ever own you that way again. Do you understand?"

He looked back ather, swallowing convulsively, and nodded, very slightly.

"And you'll do what I ask you to do?" Her slender fingers reached out to caress his cheek, softening the sting of these words as much as was possible.

"Yes." It was a tiny whisper, dry and cracked.

"Well, today, I'm ordering you to be as lazy as you possibly can, all right? Don't move unless you absolutely have to. Let Qui-Gon and me do everything for you. If you need something, just ask, and we'll get it. We're going to take care of you until you're strong and well again, and then forever after, too." Her voice was soft and gentle now, love pulsing in every syllable. "Do you understand?"

Obi-Wan drew in a shuddering breath, sinking down into the cushions where he lay curled up on his side. "Yes, I understand. Thank you, Julune."

She caressed his forehead. "Please, baby."

He smiled slowly. "Mama. Thank you, Mama Julune."

Julune leaned forward to kiss his temple. "Good enough. Soon I hope you'll drop the names, too, but you can call us whatever you want for as long as you want."

His arm snaked out from under the afghan to wrap around her neck briefly, and then he drew back, curling up into that protective ball that seemed to be the most comforting position for him now. Gently his eyes closed, and Qui-Gon drew a breath of relief in tandem with his wife.

They had a long way to go. But at least they had begun.


	32. A Thousand Stones

Qui-Gon sat on the floor, his back propped against the front of the couch, listening to Obi-Wan breathe. The boy remained curled up even in sleep, but when his father had lowered himself beside the couch he had shifted until his forehead just touched Qui-Gon's shoulder blade. It was the barest kind of contact, minimal and subdued, but Qui-Gon was encouraged. The boy had sought it out, though unconsciously. It was a good sign.

He was aware that Obi-Wan wasn't sleeping well, though, only dozing, slipping in and out, never high enough to be aware of his surroundings, never deep enough to dream. And again he heard that slight laboring sound in the boy's breathing, the shivering, ragged edge of it. He had hoped that getting Obi-Wan into a good environment with plenty of air, sunlight, and nutritious food might fend off the illness that was no doubt attacking his weakened body, but this sounded even worse then it had in the groundcab.

Again he remembered the wounds that marked the slender back, the angry, inflamed redness of some of the welts, how they had appeared swollen, barely closed, ready to burst. The infection was not going to heal without attention, and even now fever might be building inside his boy. He concentrated on the sensation of Obi-Wan's forehead against his back, trying to determine if it felt too warm. It was impossible to tell, the feeling too distant and muffled.

It was the same when he tried to touch his son with the Force. The distance was strange, though. It wasn't as if the gentle probes were slipping away, repelled by some kind of shield. They simply encountered . . . nothing. Something had cut the boy completely off from the Force. He was surrounded by a void, a negation of the Force.

Qui-Gon had never come across anything like it in all of his varied experience. It was new, strange, incomprehensible, and it frightened him. He utterly loathed this feeling of helplessness and impotence, and the fact that it was his own beloved son that he was powerless to help. All he could do was hope that the damage was somehow reversible, and suddenly, hope was not enough.

What had happened to his boy? It must have been something terrible to make him lose the connection he had always treasured. The Force had always come so naturally to Obi-Wan. He had lived in it free and joyful as a bird. It was fundamental to the boy's character, as much a part of him as those changeable eyes and bright reddish hair, the shy, lovely smile that was all the more beautiful for its rarity, his sweetness and courage and utter inability to harbor the smallest portion of selfishness or pride. A part of Obi-Wan had been erased by his ordeal, a large part, and Qui-Gon ached with the loss. Other aspects of Obi-Wan's spirit had also been tattered and torn—his innocence, his trust, his childlike wonder and joy with the universe—but this complete destruction of what had been most inherent to his life was the most grievous injury of all.

"Oh, Obi-Wan," he whispered, half in a sigh and half in a moan. "When will you trust me enough to share this burden with me?"

And he thought he heard a frail whisper, faint as the softest exhalation. Buried in the breathy sound might have been a single word, a single syllable. A word that gave him unsought hope, even as it promised very little, in truth. _Soon._

It could have meant anything, really—two hours or two years. But at least it wasn't "never."

Qui-Gon turned around, very carefully, to seek his boy's face. Then he rested, his chest pressed against the side of the cushion, watching as avidly as he had listened. The youngster didn't seem awake—he remained still, his breathing the same, the tension in his slight frame no worse and no better. Had it really been Obi-Wan's voice he heard? It might have been only an illusory desire.

Or, perhaps, the encouragement of the Force.

Whatever it was, he would take it.

"It might not be a matter of trust, even."

Ah, that voice was very real, very firm, though quiet. Qui-Gon turned. Julune stood in the doorway to the hall, watching her men with fond eyes. She had been passing through the common room every now and then, much more often than was necessary for whatever task she had currently occupied herself with, Qui-Gon was sure.

She smiled at his bewilderment and treaded softly over to the couch, sitting herself by Obi-Wan's feet, which were still drawn up close to his body. Absently she reached under the afghan to touch the boy, frowning when she found the thin ankle she sought. "He's too cold," she murmured, and gently drew his feet toward her so she could rub them.

Obi-Wan breathed something like a moan and bent his head further into his little ball, though he didn't try to pull his feet away from Julune. The movement caused the top of his forehead to touch Qui-Gon again, this time very near his heart. The man raised a careful hand and rested it on the bright, tangled locks, keeping him there with the lightest pressure.

"What do you mean?" he asked Julune.

She scowled at him, more in play than in earnest, though he saw the serious glint in her dark eyes. "You know that Obi-Wan trusts you utterly. Even Dooku saw that, before. And now, when he escaped, who did he seek? Who did he call? Not the Temple. Not the Agri-Corps. He commed you. He came to you."

"To us," Qui-Gon murmured.

Julune inclined her head. "Even so. He knows where he is safe, and that is here. I'm sure that it's only a matter of time before he tells us everything. It's too close now, too raw and painful. I remember how I felt when my parents died. So many people tried to comfort me, tried to offer their condolences. I remember the soul-healer asking me how I felt, right after the burial. I opened my mouth to speak, and nothing came out. Not a breath, not a sound. My throat closed up, and my body felt weighted down under a thousand stones. I wanted to say something, to give voice to the terrible pain I carried, but I could not, not for all that was in me."

Qui-Gon watched her closely. Julune didn't speak of her parents often—she had lost them to a speeder accident when she was very young, and he was surprised that she remembered this much. But he had always known that she was a special woman. It really shouldn't be a shock that she had such clear, visceral memories of that terrible event.

"What happened?" he whispered, willing to take whatever she was willing to give, but not wanting to push her.

She smiled gently, with only an edge of sadness, her hands still moving slowly and steadily under the afghan. "In a few weeks, I was able to come to Uncle Javis when I was sad. He held me and rocked me, without saying a word, if I only reached up my arms to him. Later I was able to speak about it, though at that age I didn't have many of the words I needed to express myself. It came, Qui-Gon, slowly but surely. The ability to grieve must be learned, but with enough openness and support, anyone can find their way. We just need to give him time."

"Yes. As much as he needs."

Qui-Gon looked back down at the boy who just barely touched him, trying to make out the bruised features half-hidden against his raised knees. And he sighed. "I'm worried about those welts," he confessed softly. "Some of them definitely looked infected." He touched one finger to a portion of the smooth forehead that didn't rest against him, and frowned. "He might be a little warm. I'm not sure. In any case, we really ought to get him to medical attention before it gets any worse."

Julune nodded, but her eyes were worried. "You heard how frightened he was, how he didn't even want to talk to Master Yoda, who could certainly pose no threat to him. I really don't think he needs a stranger poking at him right now. It's more important to make sure that he feels safe and secure in his surroundings, at least at first."

Qui-Gon sighed. "You're right, of course. I simply don't want him to have to battle another fever so soon. He's already weak and shaky. I hate to think of what a bad illness could do to him right now."

"You know, I do have some medical training of my own." She smirked at him. "I never got that all-important certificate, but I'm not completely unschooled."

"Oh. Yes." Qui-Gon deflated slightly. "I didn't forget, honestly, I just thought . . ."

"You're just worried, and you want the very best for your son." Julune gave him a sunny smile, eyes sparkling. "It's only been a couple of hours, but you're a very good father, Qui-Gon Jinn. I see that I made my choice very well."

He crinkled his face at her, doing his utmost not to blush and squirm under the praise. "Well, and look at you. Rubbing his feet! Did you ever foresee yourself sitting on a couch, talking about some of your hardest memories and rubbing the cold, bony feet of a teenage boy?"

She sighed melodramatically and leaned back into the cushions. "Oh, the things we do for love."

"Yes, the things we do for love."

They fell silent then, just watching their boy sleep. Qui-Gon felt a little lighter, part of his load lifted, or at least shared. He still longed for healing for his precious child, but at least now he was more confident that it would come. They would try to deal with things on their own for a few days, anyway, and then see where that took them. Again he felt that little surge of joy and completion. Everything was going to be all right now. Obi-Wan was home, truly home.

Julune finished her foot-rubbing and stood carefully—so as not to disturb the boy—and returned to whatever she'd been doing. Qui-Gon remained sitting by the couch, watching. After a time he noticed Obi-Wan's eyelids fluttering, and knew that the boy was waking, surfacing from his light, restless slumber. Qui-Gon held himself very still, all but holding his breath. Then came that stillness again, that frozen anticipation that told him that Obi-Wan was awake, but unsure of his surroundings.

Still he waited, wanting the boy to make the first move, to gauge his reaction and measure how comfortable he had become in his new home.

Eventually Obi-Wan drew in a shaky breath, his eyes still shut, face still hidden. "Master?" It was a hushed whisper, tentative and wary.

Qui-Gon brushed his hand over the boy's cheek. "No, Obi-Wan. I'm not your master, and I never will be."

Obi-Wan relaxed with sigh, melding into the cushions. "My Qui-Gon."

A slow, broad smile spread through Qui-Gon, illuminating every particle of his being. "That's right. Your Qui-Gon."

One eye slowly opened, sleepy blue-green smiling back at him. "Papa Qui-Gon."

A small hand, quivering slightly, emerged from its shelter between thigh and chest and under afghan, reaching up to touch Qui-Gon's cheek with the delicate brush of a night-flyer's wings. The callused pads of fingertips that had seen hard labor trailed through his beard, across his chin, over his lips, and alighted on the little dip of the break in his nose, resting briefly there before rising again to touch the gentle wrinkles beside his eyes, one after the other. Qui-Gon bent a little closer to let the gentle, wondering touch explore his forehead, and then it fell away. And there was Obi-Wan smiling up at him, a real smile, true and bright.

"Not a dream," he murmured.

"That's right." Qui-Gon let his arm curl around his son's head, reaching inward to brush the hair off his forehead. "Any time you need to make sure, feel free. I'll always be here, not a dream."

"Thank you."

Obi-Wan leaned his head slightly forward, again resting against his chest. They stayed there in peace for a moment that could have been forever, though in truth it was all too brief. And just for that moment the stones of grief were lifted, weightless, touching nothing.


	33. This New Reality

Somehow they got through the first day. Everything was new and different for all three members of the Jinn family, and points of awkwardness surfaced at every turn. Every time Qui-Gon and Julune took a step, it seemed, they discovered another disconcerting, heartbreaking change in their Obi-Wan. But love could smooth the roughest paths, as one of Julune's favorite folk songs asserted, and they proved the strange proverb true with every moment.

In the afternoon Julune left to run errands, confident in Qui-Gon's abilities to handle affairs without her, if only for a few hours. She rushed through her paperwork at the bacta corp, eager to complete the other tasks she had set for herself. The next stop was Hilara City Hall, specifically the Record Office.

Julune bit her lip as the fussy little clerk entered information on his console, scanned the documents, transmitted the data, chatted about last night's storm. She waited for him to pause, to frown, to announce that something was wrong and the adoption would not go through, that all their plans would crumble, or once again be frustrated and turned aside. It seemed to happen so blasted often.'

Well, perhaps it had only been once, honestly. But it felt like thousands. They had kept those flimsies locked in a box in Qui-Gon's desk, incomplete, useless, broken souvenirs of a life unlived. They were a symbol of the open wounds they carried on their hearts—why hadn't they thrown them away, knowing they would never need them? They hadn't been able to. But every time Julune had thought of those documents, the missing signature that would have made them a symbol of joy rather than pain, it hurt all over again.

It seemed too wonderful to be true, to be standing here in a badly-lit office finally completing this long-interrupted process. Julune remembered her reaction last night when she saw how badly her child had been abused, how she had instantly claimed that none of that mattered now. Even then she had known that it wasn't true, just an empty platitude, but she had said it in a desperate attempt to banish the fear he carried behind his eyes. It mattered. It mattered deeply. And Qui-Gon and Julune had some healing to do, as well—this fact was only highlighted by her inability to believe that this was true, that the shelves of dusty documents she smelled and the man with thinning hair bustling around on the other side of the counter were not figments of fancy. They would all have to work together to adjust to their new reality.

But then the clerk was smiling at her, handing her a copy of the transmission acknowledgement, and informing her that they should receive a signed confirmation in three or four days. "Have a nice day, Mrs. Jinn," he finished cheerfully.

She might have said something in reply. She couldn't remember.

Julune walked through the marketplace quickly, and had to exercise a great deal of self-restraint. Everywhere she looked she saw another item that she wanted to buy for Obi-Wan—a ripe, juicy fruit, a colorful tunic, an electronic toy. If she wasn't careful she was going to spoil that child absolutely rotten in the space of three days. But he deserved it. No one could tell her otherwise. He deserved every good thing in the universe, far too many of which had been denied him.

And now they had all the time in the universe to make sure that he got them. All of them. Julune would allow nothing else.

She pushed past the row of vendors to the permanent shops along the edge of the square, entering a medical supply depot. The proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. Koly, knew her from her days as a med student, and greeted her cheerfully. They were full of questions at the supplies she brought to the counter, after some thoughtful browsing, and she just grinned back at the elderly couple.

"I have a son. Qui-Gon and I adopted him this morning. When he's feeling up to it, I'll bring him to meet you."

Every word of this short speech filled her with light. She felt that it must be streaming from her fingers and toes and the ends of her hair, dazzling everyone in the shop. But her friends exclaimed in delight and burst out with a hundred more questions, and didn't seem in the least dazzled, to her disappointment.

"His name is Obi-Wan. He's thirteen years old. And he's the sweetest boy in the galaxy. You'll love him." She answered as many questions as she could as Mrs. Koly rang up her purchases and Mr. Koly placed them in a bag, but deliberately side-stepped the ones about why she needed so much antibiotic balm and topical bacta, such a wide variety of medicines, and these soft bandage rolls.

"Most of it's just in case," she hedged, offering a smile. "You know how boys are, always falling down and running into things. I want to be ready. But yes, he has a bit of a fever right now. That's why he's not with me."

"Well, we very much look forward to meeting him, dear," Mrs. Koly said, accepting her credits. "I declare that you're glowing! Motherhood agrees with you. And the little one? Still no signs of morning sickness or fatigue?"

"I've been very lucky, I know. I'm starting to get a bit of a backache in late afternoon, though, and my feet hurt all the time."

Mr. Koly reached under the counter and produced a packet of powder, flashing it briefly where she could see it before placing it in the bag. "Three grams to a liter of warm water. Be sure to soak your feet every evening. You'll be surprised at how much it helps. And get that great big husband of yours to massage your back."

Mrs. Koly had already given back Julune's change, and she refused to add to the bill, saying that it would be much too much trouble to reopen a finished transaction. Julune could only smile and take her purchases, thanking them for the gift, and the advice. Then she was out the door and on her way home, very pleased with the speed of her excursion. Only three hours. That had to be a record.

X

"Obi-Wan, may I look at your back? I need to treat your wounds."

Obi-Wan went absolutely still where he sat on the bed holding a half-empty mug of tea, his feet tucked under him. Slowly he looked up, and she quelled a wince at the fear in his eyes and frozen features. Julune immediately sat facing him, keeping her voice soft.

"It's all right, baby. I know about it already. You don't have to be embarrassed for me. None of it was your fault, and you needn't be afraid."

The boy's eyes flickered to the darkened windows, Qui-Gon standing silent at the end of the bed, his face encouraging. The mug began to tremble in his hand. "I—I know. It's not that. I'm sorry, Julune . . . I just . . ."

"Shh, sweetheart. It's all right." Julune placed her hands around his smaller, shaking ones, holding the tea steady for a moment before drawing away. She had noticed her name alone falling from his lips. She knew it was only a mark of how upset he was, but it still hurt.

She had noticed how the boy seemed to appreciate her light touches to shoulder, face, and hand, but anything more intimate flustered him. Even that long hug the first night had confused and unsettled him. Yet another change, another mystery to add to the list.

"Would you rather Qui-Gon do it?" She scooted herself into the middle of the bed, making room for Qui-Gon next to their son. Obi-Wan seemed to accept contact from his father much more easily, though he still occasionally flinched even from him.

Obi-Wan nodded, his face flushing, head lowering, and set the mug on the nightstand. "I'm sorry, Julune—Mama Julune—I'm so sorry . . ."

"Shh." She reached to take his hand, holding tightly, watching for any sign of distress and ready to let go the moment it appeared. "You don't have to explain. You don't have to say anything."

"I want to, though." Obi-Wan squeezed back on her hand, rubbed the other over his face, and glanced up briefly as Qui-Gon sat down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

The boy drew a shaky breath and leaned into the man, his eyes drifting shut. He seemed to take himself away, slightly, to a place where he could speak without feeling. "I want you to know. I'm sorry. The guard who beat me most often, my master's favorite . . . she was a woman. She liked to hurt me when no one was looking, too, pinching, slapping, sometimes a quick punch to my stomach. I don't know why she hated me. Those beatings were the second worst, after my master's. Sometimes when it was very, very bad, my master would have to have his house physician see me. She was not gentle. Sometimes the treatments hurt as badly as the beatings. I'm sorry, Julune. She had dark hair and eyes, and long, slender fingers like yours . . .

"I'm sorry, Mama. I know you aren't like them, not at all. But my body won't listen to my head. I feel so out of control, and I hate that, but I can't help it. I'm sorry."

He sighed and fell silent, hiding his face against Qui-Gon's side. Julune trembled, holding his hand so tightly that she began to feel the bones grinding against each other, and instantly let up. She didn't understand how any woman could hurt this boy, especially not so viciously. Darkly, she thought of the blaster in the closet, all the lessons she had had with Qui-Gon at the shooting range, and mentally scheduled another visit.

"Thank you, Obi-Wan," she said quietly. "I know it was hard for you to say that. Thank you very much for telling me."

"I wanted you to know," he said, young voice muffled and cracked. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Baby, you could never hurt me." Conveniently, she forgot what it felt like when he hadn't called her Mama. "You can tell us anything. We are hurt to know what happened to you, yes, it hurts very much, but that isn't you hurting us. That's the people who hurt _you."_

Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly, squeezing her hand. Julune released a breath in relief, shoulder slumping. "We'll take this slow and easy, all right? Tonight we'll let Qui-Gon take care of you, and you'll know what it ought to feel like. Later I'll do a little more, and a little more, and you'll get used to it. Everything's going to be all right, sweetheart. We're going to make it all right."

Again the slight nod of acquiescence, feeble but there. Qui-Gon pulled the boy into his arms, onto his lap, and Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around his father and hid his face against his chest, trembling, waiting. Qui-Gon carefully pulled up the back of the baggy sleep-tunic, folding it over the boy's shoulders, and Julune saw the extent of the damage for the first time.

She shook with fury, but kept her voice soft. "It isn't so bad, Obi-Wan. Just a few of them are infected, and we'll take care of those right now, all right? It must hurt, though."

He nodded against Qui-Gon's chest, but said nothing. Julune handed her husband the antibiotic balm and watched him rub it gently over every centimeter of the boy's tense back, making sure he didn't miss anything. She held the little tub of topical bacta in her hand, mixing in a pain-relieving herb infusion with her fingers. Bacta healed, but it could sting fiercely, especially on open, infected wounds. Hopefully this would take that away.

She held out the little tub, and Qui-Gon smeared the green-tinged bacta liberally over his fingers and carefully touched it to a red, inflamed welt. Instantly Obi-Wan sighed and relaxed against his father, tension draining away.

"That feels nice," he murmured. "Cool and numb."

"Your back has been hurting this whole time, hasn't it?" Julune asked gently. "The med-tabs didn't do anything for you, did they?"

The boy nodded sleepily, and his parents exchanged a horrified glance. They should have noticed, done something earlier. But at least they were on the right path now.

By the time Qui-Gon finished, Obi-Wan was asleep. His breathing was deep and calm, though still slightly labored.

Again they lay on each side of their sleeping son, guarding against the night. Even Obi-Wan's protective ball, which he curled into as soon as they laid him down, seemed more relaxed.

It was progress. Slow, frustrating, painful, but progress.


	34. Frail Barriers

Qui-Gon was hopeful that a breakthrough had been made with Obi-Wan's soft, embarrassed confession. The youngster had begun to speak of what he had been through, though it obviously brought him pain. Qui-Gon only hoped that he and Julune had reacted correctly. Had they been too shocked? Not enough? They had been glad to finally learn something of the time they had spent apart, but had it brought any relief to their son, or only hurt him more?

It was with some trepidation that Qui-Gon sat down to breakfast the next morning, offering his family a hesitant smile. Julune seemed to be trying to settle them into normality as quickly as possible—breakfast was the usual scrambled girok eggs and toast with fruit spread, not the incredible feast she had made yesterday, that day of celebration and heartache and terrible understanding mixed with unbearable confusion.

Obi-Wan ate heartily, Qui-Gon was glad to see. But he still did not join in his parents' light-hearted conversation, only listened with quiet concentration. Julune would have more to do at work, today—her trainee had missed her. And Qui-Gon was aware that the garden was in desperate need of attention. They still hadn't staked those fior bean plants, and the task could wait no longer.

"Would you like to go outside today, Obi-Wan?" he asked, gently turning his attention to the boy. The garden on Bandomeer had always been a haven for Obi-Wan, and it was there that he had first begun to reach back to Qui-Gon, making his own connections, sharing his thoughts voluntarily. Hopefully the garden here would have the same effect.

But Obi-Wan seemed to shrink in his seat, his eyes falling, and quickly shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Are you sure? The sunlight will do you good. You could help me stake the beans."

Obi-Wan seemed to waver, but still did not look up. His shoulders hunched, rising slightly as if to protect his ears. "Please . . . I'd rather not. Could I stay inside?" He glanced up anxiously, then stared back down again. "I won't make a mess. I won't be any trouble. I'll clean up, if you want."

"That won't be necessary."

Qui-Gon reached out to lay a hand on the boy's shoulder. He hesitated when his son flinched, jerking back slightly, then holding himself carefully still. Qui-Gon felt his mouth depress into a grim line, but determinedly continued the motion, resting his palm lightly on the thin shoulder.

"It's all right, son. You aren't any trouble, and I couldn't care less if you made a hundred messes. In fact, feel free. It will give Julune something to do when she comes home besides complain about her boss."

Julune made an exasperated sound and smacked him playfully across the table, though regret instantly flashed across her face when Obi-Wan flinched at the movement. "That's right," she hastened to agree, her voice aggressively cheerful. "I like cleaning up messes made by my fine, handsome men." She made a face at Qui-Gon, though, and stuck out her tongue, though her eyes still flicked anxiously to Obi-Wan.

"Is there a reason that you don't want to go outside?" Qui-Gon asked, making his voice as gentle as he could. "Is there anything you'd like to tell us? Anything at all?"

Obi-Wan hesitated, then shook his head, bright reddish locks all but brushing the tablecloth, his head was bent so low.

Qui-Gon held his breath for a moment, then let it out in a sigh. "There's something that we need to tell you, though."

Julune looked at him curiously, but Obi-Wan remained still, a small statue of frozen stone, lined with worry and dark with hidden pain.

The man swallowed. "You remember how I said that we would get a Jedi if we had to? Well, Master Yoda agreed to send someone, for your protection. He'll be here in a couple of days."

Julune's forehead just wrinkled—they had already discussed this while the boy slept. She had not been happy, and had threatened to move out while the Jedi was here, though they both knew she would not be able to bear being so far away from their Obi-Wan. It had taken some thought and adjustment for her to accept the idea, but she had done so.

But now, Obi-Wan suddenly jerked to his feet, tearing his shoulder out of his father's grasp, and walked to the window. He stood beside it instead of in front, not exposed to the outside, and looked out obliquely, his entire body shaking. His arms wrapped tightly around his middle, a frail barrier of protection that didn't seem to reassure him at all.

His parents exchanged a concerned glance, and Qui-Gon rose cautiously, absently wiping his fingers on his napkin and dumping it on his chair. He stepped closer to the boy, making sure that his steps were loud, so the youngster would know he was coming. "Obi-Wan?"

The boy's shoulders hunched up even more, and he visibly drew into himself, huddling even as he stood leaning against the wall. "Sweetheart, what's the matter? Are you angry? I'm sorry. I should have spoken to you. I just wanted to make sure you would be as safe as possible. I know the Jedi have not been good to you. Should I call the Temple and tell Master Yoda to forget it?"

For a moment it seemed that the boy would not respond. But then his head shook, jerkily, once from side to side. He leaned more heavily against the wall, his knees bending under his weight.

Qui-Gon dared to take another step closer. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

"Nothing." It was a bare whisper, almost expressionless, though sadness laced it like the scent of incense in a house of mourning.

"I don't believe that." Qui-Gon took one more doubtful step.

He didn't want to push the child, didn't want to force him into talking, but he was beginning to wonder if that was the best course. It certainly wouldn't do Obi-Wan any good to let him simply hide all this away, burying it in his heart. This kind of pain would only congeal, harden, fester, if not aired, sorted out, and allowed to drift away. Would it be better to confront the boy, make him talk about what was hurting him?

Qui-Gon ached at the images of that hypothetical conversation. It would hurt the boy enormously, and it would be Qui-Gon who had caused it. He could barely handle the thought, shifting it gingerly in mental hands like a rock that had been sitting too near a fire, imprudently lifted and handled. Could he stand to do it, to cause his child such agony, even to help him?

"I don't believe that," he said again, a little stronger, and took the last step, standing just behind his shaking son. He laid his hand on the skinny shoulder, glad when Obi-Wan didn't jerk away at the touch, and slid it down his upper arm, trying to rub some life back into the chilled, rigid flesh.

Obi-Wan's breath hitched, and began to quicken. Qui-Gon could feel the struggle in him, even without a connection in the Force. Slowly, he slipped his other arm around the boy's chest, hugging him back against himself. "Tell me," he whispered against the tangled hair. "Are you angry?"

For a moment the silence held, shivering and fragile. Then Obi-Wan swallowed and shook his head. Suddenly he spun around in Qui-Gon's arms and latched onto him, holding with all the ferocity of despair. Qui-Gon held him just as tightly.

"I'm sorry, Papa! I'm sorry! You called me your brave boy once, but I'm not, I'm not at all! I'm afraid! I'm afraid all the time! Sometimes I don't even know why, but I'm always afraid. I don't want to go outside—I don't want to see the garden—I don't want to visit more of Thyferra. I don't want to see anyone or talk to anyone, because I'm afraid. I don't know why I'm so sure that Andros Martin is going to come, but I am. I am so, so frightened, and it's silly and stupid and I'm a horrible coward! I'm always afraid, always, even of the Jedi, the guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy. I'm such a coward! Even if the Jedi wanted me, I could never be one, not anymore. I'm a silly, stupid, useless weakling and I'll never amount to anything! I'm sorry! You deserve a better son. You should get rid of me just as soon as you can."

"Never," Qui-Gon whispered, his throat almost too tight for speech. He glanced over at Julune, and she nodded, her eyes sorrowful. After Obi-Wan's revelation of last night, she knew she would not be much help with this. It was up to Qui-Gon to do what he could for their wounded little one.

"Let's go to the common room," Qui-Gon said quietly. "We have a lot to talk about."

This seemed to be the pattern with Obi-Wan now—silence fraught with tension until another barrier broke and pain spilled out like chipped and broken obsidian, black and gleaming wet with tears in the pale radiance of moonlit dark. One by one the walls were falling, and each spilled a load greater and more painful than the last. How many were there? It didn't matter, Qui-Gon decided. They would keep going until all were gone, no matter how long it took, how much it hurt all three of them.

Obi-Wan nodded, but seemed too drained to move. Qui-Gon wordlessly scooped him up and carried him out, the frail body no burden at all in his great arms. The boy shivered, as he did almost constantly now. If he had been too thin before Martin took him away, he was seriously underweight now, and it was a continuous struggle to keep him warm.

In the common room Qui-Gon sat in a corner of the couch, still holding his son on his lap. He grabbed the blue and white afghan with one hand, the one Obi-Wan had seemed to take a liking to, and wrapped it around them both.

"Now," he said with infinite tenderness, pressing the child to his heart. "It seems that there are some things I need to make clear to you."

It took a long time, and Qui-Gon was not entirely sure that the boy believed what he said. But he pressed on, determined to continue, to repeat these very basic truths a hundred million times if that was what it took to convince his precious child that he was not a coward, or a weakling, that he was wonderful and precious, that the Jinns would never find a better son anywhere in the universe, and that taking everything into consideration, fear was perfectly reasonable at this point. And that it would get better eventually, no matter how long it took.

"You have to hold on to that, my little one," Qui-Gon said firmly, squeezing the boy a little tighter to emphasize this point. "I know it's hard to believe right now, but I want you to try. You won't always feel like this. There's nothing wrong with feeling like you do, and I don't blame you one tiny bit. But it won't always be like this. You're going to be all right. Everything will get better with time. I need you to believe that."

Obi-Wan nodded, the movement small and faint against Qui-Gon's chest, and twisted his hands a little more tightly in his father's tunic. But Qui-Gon was not sure that he actually believed it.

Come to that, he wasn't sure that he himself entirely believed it, either. Of course he had realized that his boy could not have escaped his sufferings unscathed, but he had not realized how deep and wide the damage ran. Every further glimpse shocked him anew, driving great spikes of sadness into his heart. What else was there to discover? He didn't know if he could stand any more.

"It's all right," Obi-Wan said at last, his voice small but firm. He lifted his eyes slightly to look at his father from under eyelashes that were crusted with dried tears. "The Jedi coming, I mean. I'll be all right. Just don't leave me alone, please."

"Never," Qui-Gon promised. He was a little surprised by this sudden reversal, but willing to accept it as yet another sign of this child's incredible inner courage, no matter what he thought of it himself. "That won't be a problem, trust me."

"I do." Obi-Wan laid his cheek back against Qui-Gon's chest and closed his eyes. "I do."

And for now, that had to be enough.

X

Over the next couple of days it was the small things, the incidental little everyday habits, the unconscious gestures and signs, that showed Qui-Gon just how terribly Obi-Wan had been changed. He had known that there would be some, of course, but he hadn't realized how many, how all-pervasive this new order of things was. There were the big things, yes, like the discomfort around Julune, but it was so much more than that . . .

The boy had never been loud and rambunctious, but in the last few days they'd had together on Bandomeer, he'd begun to open up, and his brilliant smile had frequently lit the room. He had talked with both adults easily and without reservation, giggling at their gentle teasing and little jokes, sharing whatever came to mind. Now he was nearly always silent, unnervingly so. Sometimes Qui-Gon could almost have forgotten the boy was in the room, were he not constantly aware of him anyway because of his irrational but persistent fear that he would somehow disappear without Qui-Gon's eye constantly on him.

Obi-Wan always slept curled up in a ball, now, pressed into a corner of his bed. When sitting on the couch, he drew his knees up and kept his arms close to his body, diminishing his already slight presence. At the dinner table he seemed almost to sink into his chair, minimizing the clatter of utensil on dish, eating slowly and quietly. It wasn't so much that he was afraid of the Jinns—he had simply learned to make himself as small as invisible as possible to avoid attention, for attention brought only evil. Now he continued these measures of self-protection without thinking.

He still flinched from casual touch, though he always looked ashamed immediately afterward, as if it was his fault that Qui-Gon felt a twinge of pain every time he saw fear flash through those blue-gray eyes. If the man approached him slowly, letting him see what was coming, he accepted the hand on the shoulder or the gentle hair-ruffle with a heart-wrenching stoicism, as if it didn't comfort him at all, but he bore it for Qui-Gon's sake. He rarely responded, not even so much as a blink, or a loosening of tension in his perpetually guarded shoulders.

And there was the way he didn't want to go outside, not even to visit the garden, to feel the sun. The way he watched the windows fearfully from as great a distance as was possible, waiting for someone to come after him. The way he followed Qui-Gon silently from room to room, and nearly panicked if he momentarily lost sight of him. The way he still shook his head regretfully, eyes downcast, whenever either adult dared broach the subject of whether he was able yet to talk about what had happened to him.

Every time Qui-Gon noticed one of these small changes, he hurt a little more. Terrible things had happened to this boy, his beloved son, and he could not fix it, could not erase and blow it away from the memory of the galaxy as he longed to do with every fiber of his being. It seemed that nothing he could offer would ever be enough to assuage this pain, to balm these soul-deep wounds. He wanted to understand, yearned to know everything his Obi-Wan had suffered and endured, but at the same time, he was afraid to find out. The events must have been beyond horrible, and Qui-Gon didn't know if he would be able to stand knowing exactly what had been done to his son, his child. Would he not fly to pieces in rage and grief? He was on the edge of doing so now, with almost no knowledge at all.

They had fallen into another pattern of stasis, none of them willing to make another move for fear of causing yet more pain. Qui-Gon knew that the next barrier would have to be broken soon, and he dreaded it. Surely this outpouring would be too much for any of them to handle. But neither could they stay here. Obi-Wan was not healing, and Qui-Gon and Julune could no more bear to leave him in pain than they could bear to cause him more.

It was a vicious dilemma, and Qui-Gon could see no solution for it. Down each path lay suffering, and felt himself to be as guilty of cowardice as Obi-Wan had been afraid he was. It seemed that their idea of trying to handle things on their own was not working out as well as they had hoped.

And then the Jedi from the Temple finally arrived.


	35. Taking a Gamble

The chime rang. Qui-Gon looked up from his datapad and stared at the front door for a long moment, a swirl of conflicting emotions chasing each other around inside his belly. The last time he had opened the door to his home, it had been the worst mistake of his life. He glanced over at Obi-Wan for reassurance, saw the boy curled up on the couch, fast asleep under his favorite afghan. Still the faint wrinkles between the youngster's eyes did not vanish even in sleep, but he was here. He was home. Qui-Gon's mistake hadn't ruined everything.

The older Jinn slowly made his way to his feet, drawing on the Force to strengthen his legs and calm the churning of his stomach. The currents were at peace around him, gently encouraging him to take this gamble. It was almost enough to still the trembling of his hand as he set it against the control panel beside the door.

The door slid silently aside and Qui-Gon stared out at the bright day, watching the trees lining the street as they swayed gently in the breeze. Then he blinked, looked down, and met the eyes of the small Jedi who stood patiently on the steps, looking up at him with large, calm eyes. The little Master held himself propped on some sort of stick, Qui-Gon noted with bemusement. He also looked older, grayer, and more bent with age in person.

"Greetings, Master Jinn," the Jedi said, bowing respectfully. "Come into your home, may I?"

Qui-Gon bowed back reflexively, unsure of how to respond to this singular event. "Um, yes, Master Yoda. Certainly. I only ask that you keep your voice low. Obi-Wan is sleeping. He's still slightly feverish, though he's been improving every day."

Yoda nodded gravely and quietly hobbled past him into the house. Qui-Gon followed a bit sluggishly, his mind and body still playing catch-up. While he had considered many possibilities for what kind of Jedi the head of the Council might send, this had not been one of them.

The little Master made his way over to the couch where Obi-Wan lay sleeping and stood there looking into his troubled face for several long moments, his height making his own eyes precisely on level with the child. A green hand with three thick, clawed fingers hovered over the bright head for a time, as if measuring without touching. Yoda closed his eyes then, and Qui-Gon caught his breath at the power of the Force drawing into the room, though he did not understand what it was doing.

The tall man sank to his knees beside the Jedi, watching carefully. The wrinkles between Obi-Wan's eyes slowly smoothed away, and his lips parted with a soft exhalation. Qui-Gon could have wept with joy—his son looked so peaceful now, so content with himself. Nothing he and his wife had done had been able to accomplish this.

Eventually Yoda lowered his hand and opened his eyes, taking a step back as he leaned on his stick again. He seemed to deflate, somehow, and the concentrated power in the room dissipated slightly, though it seemed that this Jedi carried a great deal of it around with him. It was as if he were the nexus for a meeting of a hundred golden currents, all smooth and controlled and glowing with the Light Side even as their depths defied comprehension.

"Could you touch him?" Qui-Gon whispered reverently. "I haven't been able to touch him. It isn't even shields. There's just . . . nothing. Did you touch him, even so?"

Yoda shook his head, his mouth grim. "This little one . . . denying the Force, he is. Doing harm to himself by his denial. Touch him I could not."

"But he relaxed. He felt your presence."

"Perhaps so. But not through the Force it was. That I cannot explain, Master Jinn, not for certain. Aware you are that he was not sleeping deeply, nor well. Perhaps it was that he woke for a moment and saw me, and his own mind supplied the comfort. Always he has had great trust in this old Jedi. A marvel and a wonder it is. Humbled by it, I am."

Qui-Gon smiled ruefully. He could relate. Despite all that he had suffered, this wondrous boy had such a great capacity for trust, for love.

"Can you help him?"

Yoda slowly turned to look at him, his citrus eyes still solemnly unreadable. "Come I would not have if think it possible I did not."

Qui-Gon relaxed marginally, settling back on his heels. "Yes, I wondered about that. I expected you to send another Jedi Knight, not come yourself. Though I had hoped it would be someone Obi-Wan knew and trusted, I hadn't hoped for this. Surely you must be very busy with your duties."

"Ah, a doubled-edged blade, such an assumption is." Yoda's eyebrows lifted reproachfully. "Busy I am, yes, with the duties of a Jedi. But always the duty of a Jedi it is to show compassion to hurting sentients, and provide all the best help that is possible when it is needed. Too great are none of us, to take a moment to help the smallest."

The man bent his head, accepting the mild chastisement. "As you say, Master."

Yoda looked back at the serene face of the sleeping boy, and Qui-Gon thought he descried a troubled gleam in the depths of his calm eyes. "True it is, though, that return to the Temple I must in less than a standard week. Not long enough it will be, I fear, but long enough to begin the work, I hope." Gently his small hand smoothed the afghan over Obi-Wan's shoulder, pulling it up slightly where it had drifted.

Qui-Gon smiled. He suspected that one reason the head of Jedi Council had sent himself on this mission—though perhaps it was only concern among many—was simply because he had a tenderness for his former student, and wanted to see for himself that he was well and getting better. It wasn't at all hard to believe. This boy was very easy to love.

"When leave I must, another Jedi I will send to watch in my place," Yoda continued, still studying Obi-Wan's face. "Danger there is here, though the source of it is not clear." He raised troubled eyes to Qui-Gon, his strange, rough voice very serious. "Guard your little one well, you must. Reaching for him the Dark Side is, always reaching."

Qui-Gon shuddered. "It will never claim him," he said, more firmly than he'd meant to.

Yoda smiled, softly and slowly. "No. Claim our Obi-Wan the darkness never will."

For a moment they were still, just watching him sleep, this wounded young boy who had found his way deeply into each of their hearts. Qui-Gon wondered idly why Yoda had not taken Obi-Wan as his apprentice, but perhaps this was one area in which the duties of the head of the council superseded other paths a life might take. And he had to admit that he was glad the little green Master had not claimed the child. If he had, Qui-Gon would never have met him, would never have caught his gaze across a crowded docking area and felt a bond bloom between them. Never would have taken him home, introduced him to Julune, watched him strengthen and grow from a frightened, hesitant, sorrowful little lad to a boy who all but glowed with light and life. He never would have found his son.

But many other things also would not have happened. Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping. "Even so, the darkness has managed to wound him," he said sadly. "You said that you want to start Obi-Wan on the path to healing, didn't you?"

Yoda nodded solemnly, his gaze never wavering from the youngster's still features.

"How do you mean to accomplish this?"

"Easy it will not be, Master Jinn, for you or for the young one."

"I did not expect to be. What do you ask of me?"

Master Yoda turned to face him, leaning with both hands on his walking stick. "Leave me alone with him, you must."

Qui-Gon started, and had to remind himself to keep his voice low. "Master Yoda . . . he is frightened when I am not near. He panics if I move around the corner for a moment. I would not cause him distress."

The small Master tilted his head, his eyes gleaming sadly. "That, we cannot avoid. Pass beyond this fear Obi-Wan must, if he is to heal."

"With all due respect, Master, you don't teach a child to swim by throwing him into the middle of a lake."

Yoda smiled, real mirth brightening his eyes. "Agree I do. But saw you did that trust me he does also. Perhaps enough it will be to help him remain calm. Besides, know you do that remain in this state forever you cannot."

Qui-Gon sighed softly. "Yes, I know. And I know he's been clinging to me, and it isn't healthy in the long run. But for now . . . he needs me. Needs to know that he is safe. Must it be now? It just seems . . . too soon."

"Trust my judgment, do you?"

Jinn hesitated. For a long time he just looked at the small Master, his gaze occasionally flickering to Obi-Wan's peaceful face as his mind wove back and forth. The entire Jedi Order trusted this Master's judgment. But this was Qui-Gon's traumatized _son_ they were talking about here. But even Master Dooku respected this wise, wrinkled little old creature. But this was Obi-Wan they were talking about. But Obi-Wan trusted him too.

At last he nodded, his breath leaving him in resignation. "Yes. I . . . I trust your judgment."

Yoda nodded, not in triumph, but in simple acknowledgement. "Very well. Now, know I do that work there is to do your garden. Neglecting it you have been, yes? When your wife comes home, call her to assist you."

Qui-Gon blinked. How did the little Master know so much? "But what if . . . what if . . ."

"If need you Obi-Wan does, call you I will. Fear not, Master Jinn. Know my summons when you feel it, you will."

The man swallowed, and slowly climbed to his feet. Everything seemed to moving too quickly. He looked down at his son, saw how tenderly Yoda's little hand rested on him, and felt a surge of peace. The Force was calm about them, but ready for what was to come.

"Thank you, Master Yoda." He bent at the waist, and carefully made his way out the door.

But he could not help looking back.


	36. Descent of Cold

Yoda laid his gimer stick on the floor and backed up a few steps, sitting on the knee-high table in the middle of the common room as he watched the former initiate sleep. (It was knee-high to a human, anyway. Yoda's legs dangled off the edge.) Perhaps it had not been fair of him to push Qui-Gon Jinn into leaving like that, and he might have laid it on a bit thick—most sentients did not realize that they what they took for almost supernatural knowledge on his part was little more than observation and logical deduction. He had seen the garden and recognized the Living Force connection Master Jinn had, and during the comm call he had noticed the boy's dependence on his father, so he had concluded that the garden was being neglected. He hadn't sensed Mistress Jinn in the house, so she must be out, but he doubted that she could make herself stay away long. Very simple, really.

Unlike many things. Yoda folded his hands in his lap as he watched the youngster sleep. The boy had been hurt a great deal, that much was obvious. And if he hadn't reacted in the best way, who could have asked or expected him to do otherwise? He was young and in need of guidance, and he had done the best he could.

Each behavior that might be called a "problem" now was simply a coping mechanism that had helped him survive. That they continued now was no mark of weakness, only a measure of his youth, and the depth of the pain he had suffered. Even the wisest Jedi of them all would do well to tread carefully in this situation. It would not do to push the lad farther away, but neither could they allow him to remain lost in his fear.

There would be a time to command and a time to comfort, and Yoda could only hope that he would know the difference. The boy's parents apparently had not been able to bring themselves to do the former, but he could not blame them for that. And they had called him, asked for his help. No more could be asked of them—indeed, it took great faith for them to place their beloved child in the hands of a sentient they had never met in person. It did his heart good to see the child surrounded by such warmth and light. Love filled this house like a bright color beyond the shade of visible light, lightening everything it touched.

It had done Obi-Wan much good already, he could see. Wounded and exhausted, used far beyond his strength, the boy had still known the right place to come. He had begun to heal here, though the process had stalled. But this denial, this negation of the Force that surrounded the boy in cold emptiness—Yoda had never encountered such in all his days. He did not understand how it had been accomplished, and it worried him greatly.

Already Yoda was sure that he would have to keep his promise, and summon Qui-Gon before the hour was over.

The boy stilled, his breath pausing, body frozen in anticipation under the afghan. Yoda leaned forward, waiting. After a moment the young eyes drifted open, blue-gray and confused, and then Obi-Wan bolted upright, looking wildly about the room. His breath began to rush in and out, his thin hands clutched the blanket to his chest.

"Good morning, Obi-Wan." Yoda leaped lightly from the table to sit next to the boy on the couch. He took one rigid hand in both of his and squeezed it tightly, pouring calm into the Force around them even though he doubted the youngster could feel it.

Obi-Wan responded to the touch, though, turning toward the Jedi as his knees drew reflexively up to his chest. His hand flexed within Yoda's two small ones, but he did not try to draw it away. Slowly his breathing began to ease, though it still came too hard and fast. "Wh-where is Qui-Gon? Where's my papa?"

"In the garden he is, completing work long left undone. His presence, can you not feel?"

It was a sly question—he knew well that the boy could not. Obi-Wan shook his head, craning his neck to see through the windows on the opposite side of the room. Fortunately Qui-Gon was near the house, at the moment, stooping to fill a container in a small fishpond near the back veranda. Obi-Wan watched him avidly, pupils flickering minutely back and forth, and leaned his head back against the couch as his breath slowly calmed.

"Leave you he will not, youngling," Yoda said gently. "Only giving us room to talk, he is."

Obi-Wan turned shakily to his old teacher, shivering violently under the disarranged afghan. His eyes were dilated and unfocused, staring through the Jedi. Without letting go of his hand, Yoda pulled the afghan up, tucking it around his shoulders, adding a gentle wave of Force-heat. The child was far too thin—no wonder he chilled easily.

"M-Master Yoda?" Obi-Wan finally noticed who was holding his hand. He blinked, and gaped at the little Jedi in amazement. "Am—am I dreaming?"

"No, dreaming you are not. Here, I am, come from the Temple to guard and protect you. Wanted to see for myself, I did, what has become of my old student. Found a good life, you have, here with the Jinn family, but in doing so let go of your old life, things that you ought not to have lost."

Obi-Wan shivered, though not with cold now. "No, Master. I . . . I lost things that I needed to lose. I needed to leave them behind." He looked back to the window, and his breath started to quicken again as Qui-Gon walked away from the house. "Master, please . . . Call him back."

Yoda felt his eyebrows bend in grave disapproval. The boy felt he ought not to touch the Force, not even to call his father, but why? Too many questions, and a boy too frightened to answer them. "Why do you wish to have your father near at all times?" he asked obliquely. "Safe with me, do you not feel?"

The boy gulped, his eyes widening. "I . . . well . . . yes, Master Yoda. I mean . . . no. Not really. I don't. I'm . . ."

He lowered his head as if confessing a grave sin, his hand limp and resigned in the Jedi's little claws. "I'm afraid," he whispered. "I'm afraid all the time."

"No shame is there in such fear, after the ordeal you have suffered." Yoda nodded gravely, trying to catch the boy's gaze with no success. "How deal with fear, does a Jedi?"

Obi-Wan shook. "But I'm not a Jedi!" he cried. "And I'll never be one!" It was the first time this morning Yoda had seen something besides fear or panic. This was despair, cold and overwhelming, and he had to bolster his own spirit to prevent himself from being pulled into its thick, suffocating folds.

"Wrong you are," he said sternly, holding the boy's hand so tightly that the fingers overlapped. He knew it was probably the causing the child a little pain, but he did not let up. "A Jedi you always were, and a Jedi you always will be. Titles matter not. Who you are, it is, deep inside you." He poked a claw at the youngster's chest, and finally caught a corner of that blue-gray gaze as Obi-Wan's eyes flashed up momentarily in shock. "Now tell me you must—how deal with fear, does a Jedi?"

Obi-Wan's chin sunk to his chest, and he leaned heavily against the back cushion of the couch. His response was a whisper, faint and embarrassed. "He releases it."

"Forgotten, have you, all of your old lessons? Forgotten how to release fear? Teach you I will again, if it is needed."

The bright, tangled head shook jerkily from side to side. "Not forgotten," he whispered. "Can't. Just . . . can't."

Yoda leaned forward, softening his touch on the rigid hand within both of his. Now they were reaching the crux of the matter. His voice, too, he made much gentler, the tones he used when teaching the smallest of the children in the Temple. "Afraid you are to touch the Force, my youngling. I am wondering, why is this?"

Obi-Wan shook, turning his face to hide against the cushion. He tried to pull his hand away, but Yoda didn't let him, still holding tightly. He kept his voice soft and gentle, coaxing.

"Needful it is to share this burden. Tell me, can you?"

"I can't, I can't, I can't . . ." It was a whispered wail, all the more despairing for its deep quiet.

"You can," Yoda contradicted firmly. "If not me, another will you talk to? Hide this you cannot. Destroy you it will."

"Please, no." Obi-Wan shook his head convulsively, his eyes squeezed shut to disallow the tears, though they escaped despite his best efforts. "Please, Master Yoda, I can't . . . the darkness . . . I'm afraid! I can't, I can't. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I can't. It touched . . . I touched . . . I can't!"

Yoda sat carefully still. "Afraid you are of the darkness," he said slowly, understanding. "Afraid that touched you it did. Or that touched it, _you_ did."

Obi-Wan nodded shakily against the cushion, then froze in horror as he realized what he had given away, his entire body tense and quivering.

The small Master bobbed his head gently, and softened his voice to the most tender of whispered commands, leaning closer to the boy's ear. "If afraid of this you are, then understand you must that even more important it is to tell us what happened. Refuse you do to touch the Force, but destroy the taint of the darkness, that will not. Only the Light can do this. Wish to destroy the taint, do you, if taint there is?"

For a long moment the boy only trembled so violently that the afghan would have fallen from his shoulders without Yoda's careful touch of the Force holding it there. Then he nodded, and relaxed against the cushions, exhausted, his face hidden. Yoda sat back, already reaching out with his mind.

"Very well. Summoned your father, I have. No doubt there is that he will be here before we finish speaking. Then, tell us you must all that happened to you, all that causes you fear. Agree to this, do you?"

Obi-Wan rolled his head over on the cushion enough to reveal one red-rimmed, swollen eye, and nodded. "I will tell you everything," he whispered, voice rough and cracked. "But only with my papa here."

The Jedi Master nodded, well-satisfied with this condition. "Acceptable, that is."

And sure enough, Qui-Gon was in the common room before he finished speaking. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were wide, darting briefly around the room before resting anxiously on the boy. His trouser knees were dusty and his hands were moist, apparently from a hasty rinsing just before he rushed in, but he didn't appear to notice. Everything he had was focused on his sad young son, waiting for an indication of what he ought to do.

Obi-Wan had heard him clatter into the room, of course. He lifted his head from the cushion and stared at his father for a moment, his face revealing everything. Then he raised one arm with a wordless sob, like a small child waking from a nightmare. Qui-Gon responded the only way he could—by falling to his knees beside the couch and taking the boy in his arms, holding him close, stroking his hair with gentle fingers as he murmured in his ear.

"I'm here, I'm here. Everything's going to be all right, my sweet son, my brave boy. Everything's going to be all right."

It probably wasn't true, and both knew it. But it didn't matter. Obi-Wan clung to his father without shame, desperately needing what the man offered, and Qui-Gon rocked the boy gently, his noble face deeply lined with sorrow and love.

After a time, when it became clear the Obi-Wan wasn't anywhere near letting go, Qui-Gon half-stood and insinuated himself onto the couch between his boy and the thick, soft arm, bundling the youngster into his lap. He rearranged the hopelessly crumpled afghan with one hand, and grabbed another, eager to ease the endless shivering. His gaze flicked anxiously to Yoda as he settled himself and Obi-Wan, wordlessly asking what had happened even as he continued to murmur soothing phrases.

"Shh, my little one. It's all right. Don't be afraid." Suddenly he paused, looking down at the smaller head pressed against his shoulder. Quickly, as if taking advantage of a momentary weakness in himself before he thought better of it, the big man bent his head and laid a fervent kiss on the smooth, flushed cheek. "Oh, Obi-Wan. I love you, son. I love you so much. I don't . . ." He paused, then went on. "I don't have words to tell you just how much. Please, sweetheart, can you tell me what's wrong?"

Yoda settled back, waiting, as the boy went absolutely still. And then Obi-Wan nodded, and Qui-Gon's face revealed what a miracle that tiny gesture was.

"Yes," the boy whispered, his voice a raw croak. "I can. I can tell you what's wrong."

Qui-Gon looked at Yoda again, and this time his eyes were steady. He understood.

They waited, while Obi-Wan gathered his courage, and then began to speak.


	37. The Heavy Weight of Ice

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, one hand absently fingering Qui-Gon's tunic under the afghan. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was deliberately calm. As he had when he spoke about why he preferred Qui-Gon's touch to Julune's, he seemed to take himself away, to a place where he didn't have to feel what he was talking about. The reaction worried Qui-Gon, but he understood it, and he held himself in silence, accepting.

"I . . . I don't know how to start. There's too much to say."

"Begin at the beginning," Qui-Gon suggested quietly, still gently lacing his fingers through his son's hair, trying to smooth out the tangles without disturbing him. The boy nodded, and drew in a deep breath.

"We, we exited hyperspace," Obi-Wan began slowly. "I was standing in the cockpit, looking out the front screen. It wasn't Coruscant. There weren't any lights. It was red. It looked like a desert planet, hot, full of canyons. I turned to ask Andros Martin why, where we were, and then I saw that he wasn't a Jedi. His clothes were . . . different. And he was smiling. I looked at his fingers, and I remembered . . . I remembered him holding my chin, making me listen . . ."

Dreamily, the boy raised a hand, trailed a finger lightly across his jaw, though those bruises had long since faded, and been replaced again, and again.

"He was the one who kidnapped me the first time, from the Agri-Corps. I was sick then, I couldn't fight, couldn't understand what was happening. But this time I could. I understood everything. He told me why he had wanted me, something about Force-sensitive slaves bringing a lot of money. Then he put the collar around my neck, and I fell."

Obi-Wan pressed his face to Qui-Gon's broad shoulder for a moment, shuddering, trying to regain his distance. Qui-Gon wrapped his arms more tightly around the boy and held on, fighting the terrible sensation of helplessness, trying not to ask why he could not cure this, could not provide enough warmth to dispel this deep chill. It seemed that his son was always cold, now, always struggling to breathe under a weight of heavy ice that coated every finger and toe, every hair, suffocating him, driving him down, reaching into his soul with sharp, icy fingers like a disease of bitter night. Qui-Gon wished with everything he had that he could fight this battle for his boy, or at least stand with him, but in this, as in too many matters, lately, Obi-Wan warred alone.

"Do you remember the name of the planet?" Qui-Gon asked, somewhat desperately. It was a silly question, irrelevant, it didn't follow, but he hoped that if Obi-Wan could concentrate on facts—as meaningless and impersonal as they were—he would be able to get through this.

And Qui-Gon wanted to know. Someday he was going to go that place, and find the people who had dared to hurt his child, and he was going teach them exactly why they ought never to do it again. He didn't allow himself to think of this now, but the seed of it was there, germinating deep in his mind.

Obi-Wan shook his head and settled further into his father, finding what rest and peace he could. "The first days were . . . fuzzy. I didn't catch much of what was going on. I felt—I felt far away. It was as if all of my senses had been cut in half."

"A Force-inhibiting collar, it was," Yoda's strange little voice growled, and Qui-Gon wondered if that had truly been anger, or if he was imaging it.

"You were in shock from losing your ability to touch the Force," Qui-Gon murmured.

Obi-Wan nodded absently, soft hairs tickling the man's neck. "Yes, I thought that might be why. Not then, of course. I couldn't think then. But I thought a lot, later."

The boy fell silent again. For a time the older beings were willing to wait, to let him gather his thoughts, but soon Qui-Gon realized that Obi-Wan was losing himself. He was traveling too deep into the cave of memory, letting the light fade behind him, and soon the path back would be gone. He resisted the urge to shake the youngster out of his stupor, instead squeezing him a little tighter and pressing his cheek against the soft hair.

"Obi-Wan?" He voiced the precious word urgently, burying his fear. "Come back, son. Come back to us."

The slight frame started, and Qui-Gon almost felt awareness flowing back into him. Obi-Wan drew a shuddering breath and pressed himself more firmly against his father.

"I'm thirsty," he murmured.

Qui-Gon cast a longing glance toward the kitchen, but he couldn't fetch something to drink and hold his boy at the same time. Yoda divined his dilemma and waved one small hand as he hopped off the couch, scooping his stick up off the floor as he hobbled toward the kitchen. "Return soon, I will."

Qui-Gon turned his attention back to his son. He twined his fingers through the reddish locks and left them there, a steady reminder of his presence. "How are you feeling?"

The child was still too shaky, his face too warm despite his constant shivering and the chill that seeped through the rest of his body. He was still weak, though his back had been healing well with twice-daily treatments. Whenever Qui-Gon paused to listen to his breathing, there was still that slight edge, that laboring, congested pull. It required too much of the boy simply to breathe, draining him of strength that ought to be used elsewhere in his healing. Qui-Gon hoped that it wasn't worsening, but he couldn't tell. It certainly didn't seem to be getting any better.

"I'm all right," Obi-Wan murmured, as always.

"Please, son." Qui-Gon let his hand lay a little more heavily on the boy's head, a slight physical pressure to emphasize the plea in his words. "Please tell me the truth. How do you feel?"

Silence for a moment, then Obi-Wan shifted against him. "I feel . . . I feel safe," he said, his voice no longer cold and lost. "I feel warm, and loved, and comfortable. I don't think I could talk if I didn't, Papa Qui-Gon. I wouldn't be able to say a word. But I can, because I know I am safe here."

"That wasn't quite what I meant." Qui-Gon swallowed his tears and quickly kissed his son's forehead, hiding the tremble in his voice, delighting in the surge of happiness that filled him from his toes to the top of his head. "But thank you. Thank you, Obi-Wan. I'm very glad to know that."

The boy nodded slowly. "You're welcome." Then he lifted his head, just a little, and let Qui-Gon catch a glimpse of pure blue, sparkling in subdued pleasure despite the pain that did its utmost to dull the joy. "I'm still thirsty, though."

Qui-Gon felt a low chuckle rumble through him, surprised at how right and natural it felt. "I think we can remedy that."

"That, we can." Yoda returned bearing three mugs, and Qui-Gon assumed that he must be using the Force to balance the unwieldy containers in his tiny hands. The Jedi allowed Qui-Gon to relieve him of two of them, then hopped up on the low table and sat cross-legged, bending contentedly to his drink, his ears seeming to quiver with simple pleasure.

Qui-Gon had expected hot tea, so he was surprised to find the mugs cool to the touch. Yoda noticed his questioning glance and nodded amiably. "Cool-brewed tea, my own blend, to soothe the youngling's fever. Tasted it before, Obi-Wan has. Enjoy it as well, you may."

Qui-Gon took a cautious sip, and nodded in pleased agreement. It was refreshing and sweet beyond the reach of ordinary water, and not too strongly flavored for a child fighting illness. Obi-Wan's hand shook too badly, though, his grip weak and unsteady, so Qui-Gon held the mug for him, letting him take the drink in with slow, careful sips.

Halfway through Obi-Wan turned his face away, and Qui-Gon set their cups aside. Silence held, but now there was a sense of gathering in the boy's stillness. He seemed to be trying out his words to himself, testing their accuracy. But he could not seem to break the shell of silence on his own.

"Did you ever come out of that haze?" Qui-Gon asked gently, helping him pierce a hole in the quiet.

Obi-Wan nodded, and pulled in a careful breath. "I was lying on the duracrete of the cell where we slept. I saw the moonlight and the darkness, and I heard the other slaves breathing. I hurt. They had beaten me, but I hadn't felt it much at the time. Everything was clear again, and I wished it wasn't. I guess my mind had gotten used to not having the Force."

Qui-Gon nodded encouraging, raising one hand to stroke the boy's smooth cheek. "That makes sense. You were able to process your reduced sensory input, after a period of adjustment. The mind is an incredible thing." He did not let himself think about the rest of his child's soft speech.

But Obi-Wan seemed to relax. As Qui-Gon treated this horrible narrative as just a story, he was able to do the same himself. "I spent a lot of those nights thinking. It was a way to get away from everything else. It helped. I thought about you and Julune, mostly."

This warmed Qui-Gon, and he could have smiled. But Yoda couldn't leave well enough alone, it seemed.

"During the day, what happened?"

"I worked in the fields with the other outdoor laborers, at least in those first weeks. We picked nona berries, in that season, anyway. They're very small, and don't ripen evenly, so we had to watch carefully to make sure we left the unripe berries on the bush. Making mistakes was bad. It was always hot, and water was rationed—we were given one half-liter for the morning and one for the afternoon. It wasn't enough. Sometimes people fainted, just fell over with their bags spilling berries over the ground, and the overseer would run over . . ."

Obi-Wan blinked, staring away. The other two waited, and after a moment he continued. "The berries grow in clumps, and there are little thorns all through the clusters. You can't avoid them, not all of them, no matter how hard you try." He raised his thin, shaking hand to Qui-Gon, and the man saw, for the first time with understanding, the tiny round scars that lined every finger, too numerous to count, a galaxy of stars that shone without beauty. Wordlessly he took the smaller hand in his broad one, kissed the trembling fingers, and held it to his bearded cheek.

Obi-Wan continued staring up into his face, finding strength there. "We have a quota. I almost never make quota. Not making quota is bad. At the end of the day we stand in a line, waiting our turn. The overseers check our bags, making sure there aren't any unripe berries, any sticks or leaves. Then they slowly dump the berries out on the weighing pan, and you listen to the dull pattering, like a hailstorm far away. You watch the little numbers at the bottom of the scale crawl upward, hoping and hoping. You know that if you're even one gram short, there's another guard waiting to the side with a whip. They are careful. They don't open the skin, most of the time, at least not on the younger slaves. But it hurts a lot, every single time. The quota is different for different slaves, and they think they are being fair. But I almost never make quota, and I work as hard as I can, I honestly do."

Qui-Gon did not like how dilated Obi-Wan's eyes were, how distant and unfocused. He especially didn't like that he'd slipped into present tense, reliving these memories so vividly. No matter how rigidly the boy tried to hold his distance, it didn't seem to be enough. But they had to get through this, and quickly.

"I know you did, son," he said quietly. "I know you worked as hard you could. It wasn't your fault. You did nothing wrong."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I tried to escape, twice. Once they caught me at the fence, and once while I was still crawling through the berry field. Those punishments were very, very bad. I broke the rules."

"Rules they made to oppress you, Obi-Wan. You had every right to try to escape. You should not have been there—no one ever should, but especially not you. You didn't deserve any of that."

The boy shrugged. "I must have. I must have done something really bad. I didn't meditate when Andros Martin came for me. I never found an answer to my visions. I've done other terrible things, too—that must be why. I wish I knew how to make it right, though."

"No, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon fought to keep his voice steady. "You never did anything to deserve any of this. No mistake you ever made could be enough to merit such a horrible punishment. You are the victim of a terrible crime, of many terrible crimes. Andros Martin was wrong to take you and sell you into slavery, your master was wrong to buy you, and the overseers were wrong to enforce his rules, and to hurt you and the other slaves. You did nothing wrong, and you must not think so."

Obi-Wan nodded, but Qui-Gon could tell that he didn't really believe him. They had a long way to go. This wasn't anywhere near over.


	38. All Was Gray

"It was different in the house," Obi-Wan said, almost musingly.

Qui-Gon did his best not to react too strongly to this. Better to take everything matter-of-factly, just let the boy tell his story. They could feel later. "Oh?" he asked, casually twining his fingers through his son's.

Obi-Wan nodded and leaned his temple against Qui-Gon's chest, as peaceful and at rest as he could be. "In some ways it was better. I think that's why my master wanted me to work in the field for a while, though he obviously bought me for a different use. Because I knew how bad it was out there, they could threaten me with it. It worked well. Every time someone ordered me to do something, 'or else go back to the berries,' I did my best to follow the command. But sometimes I couldn't help failing . . ." He stopped, thinking, remembering.

"Did they ever follow through on that threat? Send you back?"

"A few times. If I fought, or was openly defiant. Once because my master said I was being too lazy, and I needed a reminder of what real work was. It would only be for a day or two, and that was enough. Except once."

Obi-Wan shuddered. Qui-Gon held the tea for him to drink again, and looked over at Master Yoda for guidance. He didn't know if he was dealing with this correctly. But the small Jedi sat still and silent, his eyes half-shut as if in contemplation, clawed hands clasped loosely in his lap. Perhaps there really was no correct way to deal with any of this. Perhaps all they could do was make it up as they went along.

Qui-Gon set the tea aside, and Obi-Wan slipped his small, cool hand into the man's large, tan one without prompting, the gesture hidden under the afghans wrapped around them. Qui-Gon's heart gave a little surge of happiness. The small action might not have meant much to somebody else, and it did not mean that this was over—not by a long shot—but it meant more than the galaxy to Qui-Gon.

"What were your duties in the house? They were lighter than fieldwork, I hope."

The boy nodded slowly. "Mostly cleaning, running errands, waiting on my master. It didn't wear me out the way fieldwork did, anyway. But I almost missed that. It was easier to sleep when I was too tired to think. Sometimes in the house I didn't sleep at all, and then the next day I would be tired, and make mistakes."

Qui-Gon knew without asking that making mistakes was never a good thing. Obi-Wan didn't have to go into details. Qui-Gon could imagine. He doubted that anything he could envision would be worse than what had actually happened.

Mentally steeling himself, he asked the next question he dreaded. "You said . . . you said that Belimi bought you for a different use. What did you mean by that?"

For a moment that seemed to stretch into forever, Obi-Wan was silent. Qui-Gon fought to keep his fists from clenching, his entire body from seizing up with tension. The most horrible possibilities whirled through his mind, taunting. The rage threatened to wash over him again, and he fought it back, waiting until he knew just how powerful it ought to be. Yoda slowly raised his head and looked at him, strange, half-lidded eyes piercingly bright, and Qui-Gon could not feel ashamed, though he knew he ought to.

"My master . . . Martin . . ." Obi-Wan shifted slightly, then seemed to fight to hold still, to keep himself from shattering. "M-Martin said that Force-sensitive slaves were more valuable. Master Belimi knew what he wanted me for when he bought me. I don't know how much he paid, but he often told me that I had to earn my keep, had to justify the expenditure. So I had to, I had to . . ."

His breathing quickened. Qui-Gon's arms tightened.

The youngster squeezed his eyes shut and pressed them against his father's chest, refusing to look at Yoda, or anything else for that matter. "I had to use the Force. And it wasn't for defense or enlightenment. I don't know if it was of the Light. Everything was confused, murky, but if, if I fought . . ."

He shivered, his breath coming ragged, but continued before Qui-Gon could reassure him. "When I was young, at the Temple, and even on Bandomeer, everything was clear. I saw choices in black and white—one was right and one was wrong. It wasn't always easy to choose right, but I always knew what it was. Not in the master's house. Never there. It was gray, it was all gray, and so was I."

He squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable, and tried to push himself away from Qui-Gon. The man would not have it, still holding him firmly, but his voice was gentle and open. "What's wrong? I know this is hard for you to talk about, but up to this moment you seemed to appreciate me being near. What has changed?"

Obi-Wan twisted abruptly in Qui-Gon's grasp, but was far too weak to fight him off. The man winced, though, when he caught the glisten of tears on eyes that were murky, more gray than blue, clouded with distress. "Mmph," Obi-Wan grunted, and collapsed against the stalwart chest, clutching his father's tunic. "Sorry," he whispered.

He panted, struggling for words, finding them in fitful bunches, hard-fought and tight-pulled with the effort of searching. "Sorry. I—I'm . . . talking about this . . . I feel . . . feel dirty. I should have fought harder. I shouldn't have let him . . . shouldn't have agreed . . . shouldn't have gone along with, with using the Force like that. It was . . . tarnished. Low. If it wasn't dark, it was . . . heading that way. I should have fought harder."

Qui-Gon fought to keep his voice steady, his breath even, to keep from feeding Obi-Wan's distress with his own. He buried his fingers in the boy's long, silky hair and held on. "What happened when you fought, son?"

His child trembled. "They . . . punished me. Beat me."

"It was not your choice, little one. You were given no choice, and there is no blame in this for you."

"But I still could have . . . could have . . ."

"Could have what? Kept fighting? Provoked them to kill you? That's what would have happened, my precious boy. Belimi obviously didn't want you in the field—he only had you work there so he had something to hold over you. Defiance would only have given him a reason to hurt you more, and eventually kill you. I am not sorry at all that you obeyed, because that meant that you survived, and you were able to come back to me. I'm _glad,_ Obi-Wan."

He shook the boy slightly in his arms to emphasize this, his voice fierce. "I'm _glad_ you obeyed. You did what you had to in order to get through this, I could not be more happy. I'm proud of you. You endured everything they did, and forced you to do, all the abuse and privation you suffered. I'm couldn't be more proud, and more happy to have you as my son. You are not dirty, and you are not tainted. You shine with light. You are my Obi-Wan. I could not be more proud of you."

"How can you be proud of me?" Obi-Wan half-whispered, half-wailed. "You don't even know what I did! Not only in my master's study, but after . . ."

"It doesn't matter," Qui-Gon proclaimed recklessly. "I don't care what you had to do. You came back. Nothing you did in those terrible weeks could change how much I love you, and admire your strength and your light. You're here now, and that doesn't matter."

Far from reassuring the child, this seemed only to make him shake harder. "But you don't know," he whispered, "you don't know what you're saying . . . It does matter! It does! It must! You don't know . . ."

"Tell us what you speak of," Yoda countered calmly. "Then, let us judge whether it is worth your fear, will you?"

Obi-Wan relaxed abruptly, leaning bonelessly against his father. He nodded wearily, sweat-damp face rubbing Qui-Gon's tunic. "Yes. I can do that."

Qui-Gon gave Yoda an appreciative glance, grateful for the peace the Jedi's quiet order had brought, but he still did not let go of the back of Obi-Wan's head. "I meant what I said, though," he said quietly, lowering his face to murmur into his boy's ear. "I don't care what you had to do. I can only love you more, be even more proud of you. Never less."

Obi-Wan nodded uncertainly. He obviously wanted to believe that, but couldn't quite make the leap. Qui-Gon was content. He would prove himself to this precious boy if it took the rest of his life.

"Now," he said as calmly as he could, considering what he was about to ask. "Tell us what you had to do in your master's study."

The boy released a muffled whimper, completely involuntary. "The first time . . . the first time he took me in there, and removed the collar from my neck . . . I couldn't believe it. I thought he was letting me escape. But I couldn't . . . couldn't . . . nothing I did worked. So the next time, I just stood there and waited. I used . . . I had to use the Force like, like a weapon. My master had me stand in the corner whenever one of his business associates came to visit. He had a lot of those. If they wanted refreshments or something it was my job to take care of them, but that was just a cover. Really I was there to, to spy on my master's visitors, look into their minds, watch for dishonesty, duplicity, and—and use the Force against anyone who showed himself to be an enemy. It was so . . . so hard, and sometimes I didn't succeed, and I always felt awful. It made me sick, sometimes. I wouldn't be able to eat afterward, not that they gave me all that much to eat, anyway. It went against everything I learned in the Temple about using the Force for defense, about respecting life, and only invading another's mind in the most extreme of circumstances. I couldn't pretend it wasn't happening, but I wanted to."

He pulled in a hard, shuddering breath and fell silent, hiding his face against his father's chest. Qui-Gon stroked his hair, letting a small amount of relief trickle through him like a refreshing stream through a parched palin. He had expected something much, much worse. But this obviously still caused his son a great deal of distress. Obi-Wan felt that he had violated some sort of Jedi code, and even though the Jedi had rejected him, he had obviously never rejected their teachings.

Then he realized that the boy was looking up at him, fearfully, expectantly, and he smiled and kissed the wrinkled forehead. "Still proud. Still love you."

Yoda nodded thoughtfully. "Hear your own words, did you? 'In the most extreme of circumstances,' you said. Think these circumstances were not extreme, do you?"

Obi-Wan brow furrowed again, this time in thought, a small frown tugging at his mouth. "Well . . . I suppose they were. Perhaps. Do you think so?"

The small green head bobbed slowly. "That I do. But matter my opinion does not, not as much as yours. This you must decide for yourself, if the circumstances warranted your actions. Think so I do, as does your father. But you must also forgive yourself for being young and small and forced into a situation that was too much for you. Say I do that it was no fault of yours, but this you must decide to believe."

The boy stared away, his eyes distant. The older beings gave him some time to absorb these new thoughts, Yoda departing to brew more tea, Qui-Gon simply continuing his calming touch his son's head and back. When the Jedi returned and sat on the table, waiting, Obi-Wan looked at him, and slowly nodded. Then he looked up into Qui-Gon's eyes, and the man could have melted right there. He held himself together through supreme will, aware that they had much more to discuss.

"Better?" he murmured.

"Mm hmm." Obi-Wan made an affirmative noise, sniffing almost silently, then raised one hand as if in supplication, pausing a whisper away from touching the big man's face.

Qui-Gon did not hesitate. He caught the small, thin hand in his and again clasped it to his cheek, with only a slight hesitation to press a kiss against the chilly palm. "Are you ready to go on?"

The boy trembled, but his eyes did not waver. "Y-yes. I, I want you to know everything. But, Papa Qui-Gon, I have a lot more to tell you . . ."

"That's all right. I want to hear everything you have to say."

Obi-Wan nodded, drew a deep breath, and went on.


	39. A Father's Gifts

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of Qui-Gon's beating heart, the steady pulse of his breath. He tried to feel nothing but the warmth surrounding him, the security of being clasped safe and close in his father's arms. He tried to control himself, tried to stop the shaking that possessed his body. But still the images kept crowding in, relentless, holding him trembling in their strangling grip.

If he could only get through this last part, the week before he had finally made it home to Thyferra. With every statement he made, every word that described what the past months had been like, he could feel the memories unspooling and drifting away, tangled black thread unsnarled and pulled from the mess that was in his mind, thin and taut, cutting into his fingers as he dragged it out. But the relief of being free of each word was worth the pain it took to say it, or very close.

But this last part . . . Obi-Wan wasn't sure if would be the same. Didn't know if this would bring relief, or only condemnation. He doubted the former, expected the latter. But he had promised to tell everything. He would not make himself a liar, on top of everything else. Still, he could not keep his body from shivering even harder, making speech yet more difficult.

"Th-then one day, not m-much more than a week ago, m-my master had another visitor." _Broad shoulders, smooth jowls, unctuous smile, oily voice . . ._ "I-I heard him speak in my, in my m-mind. He told me to be patient, that he w-would help me escape. I was s-so startled that . . . I forgot myself, f-forgot what I was supposed to be doing. I couldn't—couldn't remember what I was supposed to say about the visitor's feelings during the m-meeting. My master was v-very displeased." _The thunderous expression that Obi-Wan always cringed from, the loud voice demanding what was wrong with him, the sharp fingers on his arms, shaking him, throwing him against the wall, and then the nightmare swish of air displacement . . ._

"It-it was the w-worst b-beating of all, the worst I'd ev-ever gotten from my m-master. He was so angry . . ."

For a time Obi-Wan couldn't breathe. It was Qui-Gon's warm hand holding his cheek that brought him out of it, the urgent voice whispering soothing phrases against his hair. He couldn't catch the words, but that didn't matter. It was his papa's voice that mattered—it was all that mattered.

Obi-Wan arched into the touch, gasping for breath, wheezing, his chest aching. Then he reached up with both arms and flung them around his father's neck, pressing his face against the warm skin of his throat. He had never needed this more, and he had never been more grateful to have this, this strong, loving man who had become his papa, who had come into his life like a wash of tropical sunlight, chasing away the shadows and folding him into an embrace of welcoming warmth, asking nothing in return, only giving and giving and giving. Obi-Wan couldn't imagine what he had ever done to deserve this, and he could only offer up his pitiful thanks for the most amazing gift the universe had ever given to him—or to anyone, in all the history of the stars.

"I'm here, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon's strong, deep voice assured him, over and over again. "I'm here, my little one, my son. I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here . . ."

All of the pet names, the tender little endearments, more gifts from this most generous of men. Each one worth a little more. Each one a pulse of warmth beating against the ice that held Obi-Wan's heart in its merciless grip, lifting the cold by painfully slow increments. Each one deeply cherished, a small gem in a hand that overflowed with them. Did Qui-Gon even realize how much these words meant? They fell so easily from his lips, treasures casually given. Obi-Wan dreaded the time when they would be withdrawn, but he knew it could not be avoided, for he had promised to tell everything. He clasped each loving phrase to his heart, holding the plenty against the barren time to come.

Obi-Wan turned his face slightly to speak, though he did not open his eyes. "I w-was ill then. The house ph-physician had to come s-see me, it was so bad." _Hard, thin fingers pressing his wounds, making him cry out, dark eyes dull with distaste at his weakness, beautiful, melodic voice telling him to hold still, stop struggling, or she would call the guard . . ._ "And, and then it was dark, p-perhaps a day or two later . . . I heard shouts and calls, laser blasts, but I was too d-dizzy to stand up, I d-didn't understand what was happening. Someone grabbed my arms, p-pulled me to my feet, picked me up w-when I fell." _Hands large and rough on his body, smoke in his clouded vision, his head pounding, unable to understand the instructions being shouted in his ear, and then the scrape of the sill over his abdomen as strong hands hauled on his arms, his shoulders screaming in pain . . ._

"They pulled m-me out through a window, I th-think. I didn't underst-stand what was happening. But I saw—I saw the stars, and they were so very beautiful." _Staring up into the darkness at the pinpricks of light, so distant, so gorgeous, then blurring strangely, shifting and rocking as someone picked him up again, and he landed on something cold and hard, and everything faded . . ._ "It was such a l-long time since I'd seen them. I'd almost forgotten. Papa, I'd like to s-see the stars again."

"We can go outside tonight, if you like," Qui-Gon's deep voice murmured gently. "It's up to you. But they are very beautiful here, that's certain. Later we can take a trip into the mountains, away from the lights of the city. Out there the night is so deep and rich that you'll think you can see forever."

But Obi-Wan withdrew, pulling tightly within himself again. He'd forgotten that seeing the stars would involve leaving the safety of this home. It would be enough to see a patch of night sky through the window. That was all he needed. But it would be unkind to shatter Qui-Gon's pleasant plans. He sounded so eager, already looking forward to a trip that Obi-Wan didn't know he would ever be able to take. "All right," he murmured. "That sounds nice."

"It will be. When you're ready."

And this was another gift, this easy, gracious understanding. Obi-Wan buried his face in his father's neck again, hiding himself, trying to feel only the wonderful sensation of being held. Just when he thought Qui-Gon couldn't give anymore, that he had already given everything, he surprised him again. The least Obi-Wan could do in return was tell the truth, even as frightened as he was, as certain as he was that this would mean the end.

Resolutely, Obi-Wan turned his face yet again. He was going to finish this, no matter . . . no matter what. "When I woke, I was in a room." _Rich, dark wood paneling, thick wall hangings, a canopy of dark green above . . ._ "I was in a, a soft, warm bed. It had been such a long time since I'd slept in a bed that soft. I d-dressed in clothes from the wardrobe—my own had disappeared. They were n-nice, soft and smooth." _A red silk shirt flowing over his hand like water, pooling in a small puddle of cool fabric . . ._ "I was afraid, but I almost dared to believe th-that I had truly been rescued, by beings who were k-kind and caring. It was all so c-comfortable and warm, and I had been cold for such a long time."

Qui-Gon rubbed his back, murmuring his understanding. Obi-Wan did not risk a glance at Yoda. Surely the wise Jedi master knew what coming, knew how unforgivably foolish he had been.

"I ex-expected the door to be locked, but it opened when I touched it. I w-went looking for someone to tell me where I was, what was going on." _Cold, rough stone against his palm as he shakily walked down the corridor, leaning heavily against the wall, his knees bending beneath him, as he flinched at every sound, trying to control his trembling . . ._ "I was still a bit d-dizzy and ill, but at least I was more a-aware. I turned a corner, and ran into s-someone. He caught my sh-shoulders as I fell, held me up." _His master's last visitor, all arrogance wiped away from his face, his deep eyes concerned, his voice kind . . ._ "He asked me how I was f-feeling, and took me to a room with a table full of food. He l-let me eat until I was full. It had been a l-long time since I was full.

"He told me that his name was T-Torin Yumal. He wasn't a Jedi, he s-said, but he knew how to use the F-Force, and he sensed the ability in me, as well as m-my pain, and felt that he ought to help me. He said that he r-ran a tutoring agency for Force-sensitive sentients who weren't ch-chosen by the Jedi, and that he would be g-glad to help me as well." _So many words, smooth and convincing and sweet, honey in the ears . . ._ "I . . . I wanted it. It had been such a long time since I had had any teaching in the Force, and I m-missed it. I missed it sorely. And I knew that I w-would probably n-never get an-nother chance. S-so I agreed. I agreed, Papa Qui-Gon. I agreed . . ."

And suddenly he was crying, deep, choking sobs that ripped at his chest and throat, that tore as they left him, each a snarl of jagged wire cutting as it moved through him and escaped from his mouth. He didn't understand where it was coming from. He hadn't cried like this since the day he had realized that he wasn't a Jedi. Not in all his time as a slave, not under the guard's whip or his master's fist, not even when he finally escaped and came home. A few tears had escaped that first night, and at odd times after, but those were mostly of confusion or release, and quickly over. This was different. This was pain. And this horrid, deep weeping was doing nothing to ease it.

Qui-Gon was murmuring against his hair again, soothing words in that deep voice of his that was as much of an embrace as his strong arms. But Obi-Wan couldn't hear him, couldn't hear anything but his own strangled sobs. Then the deep voice became more strident, the arms about him almost painfully tight, and eventually his father's words began to register. They were commands.

"Tell me, Obi-Wan. Tell me what happened. Tell me what that man did to you. Tell me, tell me now!"

And even this was a gift, as roughly given as it was, for with this order, Obi-Wan could find the strength to obey as he could not find the strength to pour out the words of himself. He had been trained from infancy to respond to orders given in that firm tone, and he had never been a disobedient child. Sometimes willful and wandering, his attention focused elsewhere until it was forcibly brought back to where it belonged, but never disobedient.

"Nothing," Obi-Wan gasped out, forcing the words past the sobs, determined to obey this kind command. "He didn't—didn't do anything to me. He didn't—didn't hurt me. He—took off the Force-collar. He—let me—feel the Force again." Gradually as he spoke the sobs came with less frequency, though his breath continued to hitch painfully, and every raspy word scraped at his raw throat. "He said—he wanted to teach me. And he did try." Obi-Wan pulled in a deep breath, and released the words that said everything he was afraid to explain. "He didn't do anything. It was me, just me. It was me, it was me, it was me, it was me . . ."

"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon's face pressed against the top of his head, startling him out of his self-condemning chant. His voice was strong. He would not be denied. "Obi-Wan, stop! You have not proved that to my satisfaction, and I don't want to hear you saying that until you have. I will not believe that it was your fault, not unless you can prove it to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. Now tell me, my precious little one, tell me what happened. Tell me everything."

And Obi-Wan was grateful for that strength, for he had none of his own. He clutched his father yet tighter, his entire body shaking with the effort, and let himself remember. He remembered everything.


	40. The Taint of Darkness

_Obi-Wan soon learned that he was not the only student in this "tutoring agency," and Master Yumal was not the only teacher. But the man who had rescued him from Miko Belimi had definitely taken a personal interest in him. He seemed to take pleasure in showing Obi-Wan around the huge, castle-like building, and was quick to see him back to the room he had woken in when his fatigue began to overcome him. Torin Yumal was kind and solicitous and ceaselessly compassionate. Obi-Wan had seen correctly when he sensed hidden depths in this man so long ago in Master Belimi's study, three days previous._

_The next day Master Yumal ushered him gently into a small training room. It reminded Obi-Wan of a private salle in the Temple, thick mats on the floor, plain furnishings built to withstand uncontrolled outbursts. The similarity was both comforting and unsettling—it felt almost like coming home, but strangely different, almost twisted askew._

" _Will I be allowed to call Qui-Gon and Julune soon?" Obi-Wan asked again, as he had already numerous times since awakening in this new place. He had explained to Master Yumal that the Jinns were his friends, that they had been good to him, and they would be worried if he did not contact them. Also, in the back of his mind he knew that he didn't want to stay here forever, nor even for very long. Already his heart was longing to fly away, to retreat to Thyferra, there to rest and heal from his battles with the harsh realities of slavery and exploitation._

_But it had felt wrong to refuse the man who rescued him, at such great risk, this small thing of learning from him for a few days. Torin Yumal had asked nothing else, and Obi-Wan was afraid to offer. And he wanted to receive more Force-training, truly. A deep-buried part of him longed for it be real. He still wished he could have been a Padawan, in the hopeless way one longs to own a distant star. This was not real, but it was a taste—only enough to torment and tease, not enough to satisfy, but still he wanted it._

" _Give yourself a couple of days to settle in," Master Yumal advised in a kindly tone. "Won't it feel good to be able to tell them how well you're getting on, how much you're learning, and that you look forward to visiting them soon? Better than having to tell them everything that's happened to you with no good news to temper it."_

_Obi-Wan nodded reluctantly. He didn't want to have to come to the Jinns as a needy, pathetic little weakling, as he had come to them the last time. Still, every particle of his spirit longed to hear their friendly voices again, to tell them that he was all right, and thinking of them._

" _Now, let's get that collar off you." Master Yumal reached forward slowly, waiting until he knew Obi-Wan wouldn't flinch from him before he touched the cold metal that circled his neck. He had explained last night that he wanted to wait until they were in a safe room before removing it, in case Obi-Wan experienced some sort of "Force-backlash," or shock, after being cut off for such a long time. Obi-Wan had been confused—he'd never experienced such in all the times his master had removed the collar in his study—but Yumal insisted that they wait._

_Obi-Wan all but reeled in relief as the icy touch of the collar vanished, pulling in a deep breath. It was always like being free of a cord that half-strangled him, though the physical collar didn't restrict his breathing at all—like being free of cataracts that reduced his vision to a foggy blur, free of a thick, muffling cloth bound about his ears. He could feel the Force again, though it had been so long since he had touched it of his own will that he didn't know if he could remember how._

" _Thank you," he whispered pathetically, blinking back his tears as hard as he could. It was just wonderful to know that this man wasn't going to use his skills to serve his own self-interest, wasn't going to force him to twist the Light to serve purposes that were at the very least dark gray, if they weren't black. But he wouldn't be so ridiculous as to cry over such a silly thing._

_Yumal smiled gently. "Let's begin with a simple meditation, shall we?" He settled gracefully onto the floor in a cross-legged position, and waited for Obi-Wan to join him._

_Obi-Wan hesitated, then awkwardly sat, hiding his winces at the various aches and pains he carried. He never quite got used to hurting all the time, but he had gotten used to not showing it. It had been such a long time since he had meditated—he hoped he still could._

" _Close your eyes," Master Yumal's soothing voice instructed. "Relax. Let the Force flow to you. Let it come as it is. Don't . . . heh . . . force it."_

_Unconsciously, Obi-Wan straightened his back and laid his cupped palms on his thighs, shifting his weight slightly on the mat as he found a comfortable spot. It was almost like a pre-meditation ritual, these small movements and adjustments, and it felt good to fall back into this old pattern he remembered so well. It was almost like coming home. He closed his eyes and did his best to obey, opening his mind to the flow of the Force._

_But something was wrong. He tried to reach for the Light, but all he saw in the Force about him was shades of gray. It swirled about him in ever-darker whorls and eddies, and he constantly withdrew before he touched it. Had it been too long since he had touched the Light? Could it be that all he was able to touch now was gray?_

_But he never wanted to touch anything but pure light side energy again! He had had enough of gray to last two lifetimes. Determined, Obi-Wan kept trying, avoiding the tendrils of gray, searching and searching for the purity he remembered from childhood meditations. But he could not find it. The darkness only seemed to increase, and a small chime of panic began to ring in his heart. What if this was all he would ever be able find anymore?_

_Again and again he began to reach out, and again and again he drew back. The small alarm of panic began to rise, constricting his chest in bands in durasteel. Master Yumal's voice continued in a steady stream of calm instructions. "Relax. Don't fight it. Let the Force come to you. Don't be afraid. You're doing just fine. Just relax and let it flow."_

_It sounded almost like what the masters at the Temple had said. It had always seemed to work before. Obi-Wan had never had to . . . struggle like this, to touch the light side. It had always come easily, as soon as he relaxed and opened himself. But that had changed._ He _had changed. Was it possible that he didn't belong to the light side anymore? Had he surrendered that right when he surrendered his will to Miko Belimi?_

_Yumal's voice gradually became more strident. "Stop fighting, Obi-Wan. You're making this harder than it has to be. Just touch the Force. It's not hard. You did it only three days ago. Nothing is wrong. Just let go and let it come. Stop fighting!"_

_Finally, in frustration and near-terror, Obi-Wan obeyed. He let it come. And a fist of pure darkness curled around his heart and squeezed mercilessly, and he knew it would never let him go._

_Obi-Wan cried out in shock and horror and sprang to his feet, his eyes flying wide. "No, no! I don't want this, I don't want this!"_

_Torin Yumal rose like a specter before his clouded eyes and grabbed his shoulders, babbling words Obi-Wan could not understand. He wrenched free of the grasping fingers—as he could not wrench free of the darkness that held his spirit—and fled. Shivering madly in the grip of icy cold, he raced through stone corridors, brushing past students in their red initiates' robes, past startled teachers raising their hands to forestall him, but he could not outrun the Dark. He carried it with him._

_Obi-Wan reached a set of stairs and hurried downward. On the third step his foot slipped, and he began to fall, and he let himself. But even in midair he felt himself being slowed with the Force, and found himself caught up against another man in teacher's robes. He heard others running up behind him, and knew that soon he would be trapped. But no, they wanted to help him, didn't they? They said they had wanted to help him, all this was to help him . . ._

_He struggled against the hands on his arms, raising his head, and saw the face of the man who held him. Then he froze, his eyes widening, as everything became clear. Andros Martin. It was Andros Martin._

_With a yell of fury and pain and despair, he flung all the power he could draw on in all directions. It was an explosion of raw Dark Side power, and the teachers fell away. Martin lost his grip on him. Obi-Wan tumbled down the steps, found a door, and continued running. He never stopped running, until he reached a spaceport, and found two friendly Phindians, and collapsed into their arms._

Somehow Obi-Wan managed to tell the entire story, though his teeth chattered constantly and he wasn't sure how much Qui-Gon and Yoda understood. They understood enough, no doubt. He finished and lay trembling, stiff with anticipation. He waited for his father to push him away, renounce him, waited for Yoda to condemn him as a Dark Sider.

But then he felt a splash of warm rain on the top of his head, and looked up in surprise. Qui-Gon was crying. Was he that disgusted, that horrified? Did he realize now what a terrible mistake he had made in cradling a sand-viper to his breast like this?

Incredibly, the big arms squeezed him a little tighter, not in disbelief or anger, but in comfort. "Oh, my poor little one." And his papa kissed his forehead again, and the touch, as always, was a point of warmth against the cold that never left him. "My poor Obi-Wan. You were being manipulated, son. None of it was your fault. They tried to turn you to the Dark Side. But they did not succeed. They could never succeed. You are pure Light, and nothing could ever make you turn. Perhaps they understand that now, and they'll never try again."

Obi-Wan shook his head in confusion, a mere tremble of his head, he was so weak with fear and disbelief. "B-but I t-touched it, I t-touched the D-Dark Side. It held m-me, I was c-caught . . . It was m-my fault!"

"No, youngling." Yoda stood up on the small table to be on eye-level with him, demanding his attention without effort. "Say you did that you felt no light in that room. This Master Yumal, forced you to wait, he did, until you were alone with him there, before he removed the collar. Let you feel the light, he did not. Remove all trace of it, he did. Very hard it must have been, in that building, to find the Light Side anywhere. Not you, it was, who chased it away."

"But I t-touched it. I'm t-tainted n-now. The d-darkness is in m-me. I used it . . ."

"You had no choice," Qui-Gon said softly. "You had to get away. I'm so glad you did, sweetheart. I shudder to think what they might have done to you if you hadn't."

"B-but I used the Dark S-Side . . ." Impossibly, he began to cry yet again, silent sobs that ripped at him inside, the tears flowing down his face in cold rivulets. He thought they long since been used up, but apparently not.

"This is why chose you did to remove yourself from the Force," Yoda said, nodding in understanding. "Cut yourself off, you have. Would a true Dark Sider have done so?"

Obi-Wan hesitated, sniffing wretchedly. He barely remembered doing that, on the ship, as he watched that terrible planet diminish and vanish in the back porthole. Feeling the tendrils of darkness still surrounding him, he had reacted out in panic and pushed everything away, not shielding against it, just seeking escape. It was as if he had reached deep inside his mind, and turned off a switch. And after that he had felt nothing. All was blessedly numb. It was like wearing the Force-collar again, but more complete, more final, for he had done it himself. He never had to go back, and no one else could make him. He was glad.

When Obi-Wan didn't answer, Qui-Gon finally did, his voice tender. "No. No Dark Sider would ever remove himself from the Force. He would revel in it, seeking ever greater ways to indulge in power, to build his strength. You fled, Obi-Wan. That speaks more highly of you than anything else you've ever done. You ran at the first touch of darkness, because you can have no part with it. You are Light."

Obi-Wan didn't believe this. Qui-Gon couldn't possibly be seeing clearly. Hadn't he said that he loved Obi-Wan? It must have blinded him. "No . . . n-no. I'm tainted. You just don't s-see it. I'm tainted."

Yoda's eyes narrowed slightly. "See that, I do not. Trust my sight, do you?"

Obi-Wan lowered his eyes in shame. The truth was that he couldn't trust anyone's sight, least of all his own. He was certain that if he ever reversed this lock-down in his mind—though he didn't know if that was even possible—he would still feel only the Dark Side. He had opened himself to it once, and now he belonged to it.

"Told you I did," Yoda said. "To destroy the taint of darkness, use the light you must. Free you this denial never will. Do you wish to be free? Open to the Light Side you must be. Allow us to help you, you must."

Obi-Wan breathed a shuddering breath and caught his bottom lip between his teeth. If that was possible, it would be the best thing he could ever ask for.

But what if Yoda was wrong? What if as soon as he opened himself, the darkness rushed in again, took hold of him?

No, he couldn't risk it. Obi-Wan shook his head, and hid his face against his father's chest, grateful that at least Qui-Gon hadn't pushed him away yet. He was tainted. He knew that. Eventually they would understand it, too.


	41. The Last Barrier

This was it, then. The last barrier had fallen, spilling its load of pain and grief. Qui-Gon had expected to feel some sort of relief, but instead there was only sadness, deep and dark and endless. He sat there on the couch, holding his frail young son against his chest, stroking his hair, trying to soothe his trembling, and still his limbs felt weighted with his own impotence. There was no balm, no healing—the wounds were open and raw, exposed to his sight, and that of their small Jedi visitor. Had they only made it worse?

Obi-Wan's body was still stiff against him. Qui-Gon continued his calming efforts, hoping to feel a loosening, a relaxation. What was the boy waiting for? It wasn't only pain that held him, but also dread. But surely he could not be afraid now—he had told everything, as he had promised. There was nothing more to fear in the telling he had avoided for so long.

"Little one?" Qui-Gon murmured hesitantly. "Is something wrong?"

The boy's head shook minutely back and forth, a shaky gesture of negation that Qui-Gon didn't believe at all.

"Is there anything else you'd like to tell us? We want to help you, dear boy. That's all we want."

"I told you everything." Obi-Wan's voice was raspy, empty. Hopeless.

Qui-Gon released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He'd half-expected there to be something more, some other horrible abuse that his son had been afraid to reveal earlier. But he sensed now that this was truly all—at least Obi-Wan had been spared some of the more despicable things that sometimes happened to children in slavery. Qui-Gon could be grateful for that small favor, as infinitesimal as it was against all that his boy had suffered.

Still, it was not right. The air ought to be clear now, but it wasn't. Obi-Wan still withheld something, even if it wasn't an actual event. And Qui-Gon couldn't imagine how to convince him to reveal it.

It was then that he understood that this wasn't the last barrier, after all. There was at least one more. And this one would be the most difficult of all to break.

"Yet if nothing is wrong, still there is something that is not quite right."

Qui-Gon glanced at the wizened little Master in surprise. Yoda's eyes were narrowed to thoughtful yellow slits, and one clawed finger rested against his closed lips. He was the very picture of patient expectation, willing to sit there until the mountains were ground down to dust by the friction of the wind before he would stop waiting for an answer to his question.

Obi-Wan shook his head, but it seemed to be more an expression of quiet despair than an actual contradiction. Still, he said nothing.

Qui-Gon breathed a sad little sigh. "Oh, my Obi-Wan. You don't trust me."

The boy flashed him a look of pure pain, and it pierced the man to his core. Then, what was even more agonizing to the older Jinn, he withdrew his arms from around his father's neck and pulled them against his chest. He huddled there within himself, though he still pressed against Qui-Gon's side as if desperately seeking shelter he was not sure of finding.

The man winced. He had not meant to hurt his already aching child. He knew that what he had said was true, though he wasn't sure how, but he obviously should have found a better way of saying it. Perhaps it was time to try a more conciliatory route. Obi-Wan had been pushed and commanded and bullied into revealing his darkest secrets quite enough for one day.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry." All this passed through Qui-Gon's mind in an instant, and he quickly pressed the boy to him and kissed his tangled hair. "I know it was difficult for you to tell us all that you have. Thank you for opening yourself to us. It means a great deal, and I love you even more than I did before. You trusted me with all of your pain, all that you went through, and I am honored. Deeply, profoundly honored. You are amazing, my Obi-Wan, and I cannot be more proud of you.

"But what are you waiting for, little one? Your body is tense with dread, as it is every time you wake. You're expecting something—or someone—to hurt you. Why?"

Obi-Wan shivered all the more, and Qui-Gon drew a breath in pained understanding.

"You're still afraid. Afraid of me? Waiting for me to reject you, to say that you are dark as you believe? It's true that you don't trust me. You don't trust me to continue loving you. Oh, my poor, dear child."

He struggled to breathe. For a time all he could do was hold his shaking son all the tighter, slowly rocking him where they sat, pressing kiss after kiss into his hair, on his wrinkled forehead bent away in hiding. It didn't matter that another man might have found it undignified, that Yoda was watching in silent absorption, that the afternoon was beginning to gray over with gathering storm clouds in the waning of the light. All that mattered was his heartbroken child, and that he didn't understand how much Qui-Gon cared for him, and always would, no matter what.

Eventually he began to find words that expressed this, broken and shaky and desperate to be understood. "I love you. I love you. I'll always love you. I wish you knew that truly. I wish you could trust that. Nothing else matters, my Obi-Wan, my precious son, my sweet little one. It doesn't matter—what you did, what was done to you, the past, the future, any of it. It doesn't change how I feel about you. Nothing can. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I always will."

He repeated this over and over, willing to say it a hundred thousand times, and even more, if that was what it took to convince his boy of this fundamental truth. But it turned out that he didn't need quite that long. For a time Obi-Wan remained stiff and unresponsive under his affectionate outpouring, but gradually the taut muscles began to loosen, and then the thin, shaky arms slid slowly about his waist, and inexorably tightened until the boy's entire body shook with the effort. Then, at last, Qui-Gon felt the rush of relief he had hoped for. It poured over him in a warm wave, and though it passed quickly, it was welcome in its coming.

"I love you. I love you," he found himself still murmuring. "My poor, sweet boy. Do you believe me? I wish you could believe me. Do you?"

Obi-Wan drew a shuddering, shaky breath past the tears he could not shed. "I want to," he whispered, almost too quietly to be heard. "I want to believe. I do."

Qui-Gon sighed, his fingers buried deep in red-gold locks. "That's a start," he murmured tenderly. "That's a good start, sweetheart."

They sat in silent comfort, finally at peace. Nothing was resolved, nothing was finished, but they had come to a resting place in the upward-twining path, an arbor of flowers prepared to shelter a weary traveler for a time of replenishing. Ever so slowly the tension drained away from the boy's weakened body, leaving him limp with exhaustion, his arms still loosely wrapped around his father's solid warmth. Qui-Gon felt him drifting, and was infinitely pleased. His poor, weary little one could do with a rest.

In the fullness of time, Obi-Wan drifted gently into sleep. Still Qui-Gon sat there, content to hold him. And for the first time the boy did not curl up in a protective ball as he slept, unconsciously shielding himself from invisible enemies. He remained loose and relaxed, though the sitting position might have seemed an awkward way to sleep at another time. Qui-Gon wished he had thought of this solution before—it had been so simple, in the end.

Eventually he remembered the tiny Jedi still sitting on the caf table, and looked up to meet his calm citrus gaze. Yoda nodded slowly, acknowledging his regard. Qui-Gon flushed, realizing fully that the Master had seen everything that had just passed, but then he lifted his chin, almost defiantly. He was not the least bit ashamed of anything he had said or done to comfort his son. He knew it was not the Jedi way to be strongly attached, to show emotion openly. But as he had told Obi-Wan, he was not a Jedi. He would not be bound by their rules, and he would feel no embarrassment for being who he was.

Yoda blinked slowly, his expression grave. "Not droids are we, Master Jinn," he said softly. "No shame is there in loving deeply, not for a Jedi, and not for a man. And certainly Obi-Wan needs to know the truth of your heart."

Qui-Gon twisted his lips in an approximation of a smile. Perhaps he would get used to this strange little creature being so knowledgeable about things hidden, eventually. "I think Obi-Wan needs more than that, though," he said softly, unwilling to accept any praise for this. Whatever little good he'd been able to do here was only a small patch of green in a vast barren, it seemed. All that he had to give would not be enough to compensate for this great pain, this yawning emptiness, though he intended to give everything he had, nonetheless.

Yoda nodded gently. "Always cold, is our youngling? Often hungry, is he?"

Again with the knowing things he shouldn't. Qui-Gon blinked, and nodded. "He can never seem to get warm. He's far too thin. And he does eat as much as his stomach will allow at mealtimes, but surely that's normal for a growing boy, especially after three months of want. I thought it was natural—I had hoped that as he grew stronger and healthier, most of that would pass."

"Mostly natural, yes. But think I do now that perhaps it is caused, at least partly, by the loss of the Force. Trying his body is to fill a void that cannot be filled with physical substance. Needs connection to the Light Side, he does. Convince him of this, we must."

"I think he knows that he needs it." Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, his body emptying, feeling Obi-Wan's motionless form shift against him. "He will never be whole without the Force. But he's willing to sacrifice that part of himself, willing to be only half of a person for the rest of his life, just to avoid the mere possibility that he might turn to the Dark." He looked down at the bright head resting on his chest, and smiled sadly, twining his fingers a little deeper into the soft, warm hair. "My brave child," he murmured, as much in wonder as in praise. "You are so incredible, my little one. You have no idea. I am privileged to be allowed to call you mine."

Yoda nodded calmly, his gaze still resting gently on the sleeping boy. They sat in silence, pondering, half-meditating.

As willing as Qui-Gon was to stay here holding his son for the rest of the day, Obi-Wan's too-bony knobs and corners were beginning to dig into his flesh, Even the point of the boy's chin was sharp where it pressed him. Qui-Gon considered this problem for a moment, then carefully shifted himself to a prone position, laying stretched out on the couch with Obi-Wan still on top of him, red-gold head pillowed on his chest. It took some time to get there, and once he had accomplished his goal, Qui-Gon paused, staring down at the boy with bated breath, hoping he hadn't wakened him.

But Obi-Wan breathed a sweet little sigh and unconsciously snuggled down into the more comfortable position, settling himself firmly against his father's warmth. Qui-Gon carefully arranged the afghans over them, using a touch of the Force to spread a corner over his large feet, quite a bit further down than Obi-Wan's. Then he lay with his head on the arm of the couch, one thumb absently stroking his son's upper arm as he stared up at the ceiling, letting his thoughts drift.

Idly Qui-Gon let his mind wander through the details of the boy's long, hard story, wincing at their harshness, their sharp edges, but allowing himself to study and understand. Qui-Gon had been right to expect horrors. Obi-Wan had been manipulated and used from the very beginning, his emotions and perceptions played with, his mind and spirit forced into roles completely alien to him.

Julune was going to be enraged when he told her about it. That her son had been so completely and systematically crushed, over a long period, by several different people . . . She was going to be utterly livid, and would probably need to yell a bit. Perhaps it would be better to take her to another room, if Obi-Wan would be willing to stay with Yoda for an hour or so. And what would Julune think of Yoda? Qui-Gon wondered. He was willing to wager that she would accept him, once she saw how he related with Obi-Wan. The small Jedi certainly had a tenderness for their boy, and Obi-Wan seemed to trust him in return, as least as much as he trusted Qui-Gon. Though not himself, more was the pity.

His poor boy, still living in fear of himself. It wasn't right at all. No child should think such things of himself, least of all this brave, kind, selfless being of light. He wasn't dark; he wasn't! Qui-Gon would never believe so.

They would need time to convince Obi-Wan of this, though, and Qui-Gon wasn't sure how it would be accomplished. Perhaps Yoda would have an idea. He glanced at the little Master, and wasn't surprised to see him utterly still, legs crossed, back straight and eyes closed in classic meditation style. He seemed to be centuries old—surely he had encountered something like this before. If he didn't know, Qui-Gon had no idea what they could do.

No, the last barrier hadn't fallen after all. It had only been identified.


	42. Things Not Yet Learned

Qui-Gon was roused from a light doze by the faint sense that he was being watched. The feeling was not unpleasant, neither sharp nor hostile. It was a gentle regard, curious and intent, with a touch of wonder.

He let his eyes flutter open, and found Obi-Wan laying there with his arms folded on the big man's chest, pointed chin resting on his forearms as he stared down into his father's face. The boy blinked slowly, his face solemn, still bearing the traces of spent tears and the marks of deep weariness, but no longer constricted in an agony of grief that denied words, denied release. He did not look away when he noticed the man looking back at him, and Qui-Gon smiled, greatly pleased by this small sign of returning confidence.

"Good afternoon, Obi-Wan," he said softly. "I love you. How are you feeling?"

The boy managed a tiny shrug, even as awkward as it was in his current position, his shoulder blades shifting slightly under Qui-Gon's arm still draped loosely over him. "I'm all right, I guess. Just . . . thinking."

"Care to share?"

Obi-Wan pulled in a breath, his back again shifting under Qui-Gon's arm, then lowered his head to rest his cheek over the man's heart. For a time he was silent, apparently listening, though it took Qui-Gon a long moment to realize that it was his own heartbeat that held the boy's rapt attention. He said nothing, just wrapped his arm more securely around his youngster, letting his fingers wander into the soft, red-gold mop again. He would not push Obi-Wan to talk, not now. Enough demands had been made for one day. Now was the time to rest, to recuperate and reconnect, remind the child that he was safe here and had nothing to fear.

Eventually Obi-Wan spoke, though, his voice soft and far-away.

"I dreamed of this."

"Did you?" Qui-Gon pressed the boy a little closer, continuing to stroke his hair.

"Mm-hmm." Obi-Wan rolled his face upward to look at Qui-Gon, large blue-green eyes blinking dreamily in his too-pale, too-hollow face. "Sometimes it was all I could do, the only thing that helped, when things got very bad. To dream. I dreamed a lot."

Qui-Gon was a bit surprised to realize that he could still ache just a little more. He'd thought that he must have reached the limit long ago, but now he learned again that that was not so. "Do you mean you dreamed awake, little one?"

"Yes. I dreamed awake." Obi-Wan shifted slightly, but only to press himself more fully against the man's side, half-leaning on the back of the couch. "Whenever I could, I remembered the good things, the great kindness you and Mama Julune showed to me. Thank you for giving me so many good memories. They helped a lot."

"I'm glad, Obi-Wan. Very glad. I wish I could have given you more." _I wish you never needed them so badly._

"It was enough," the boy assured him softly. His voice still seemed detached, but quite serious. "Sometimes I wasn't sure if certain things had truly happened or if I just made them up, but both helped me. Still do, sometimes." He buried his nose in Qui-Gon's tunic, muffling his words slightly, though the man still understood each syllable with a terrible, pin-point clarity. "A lot of times. I needed this. Maybe I still do."

Qui-Gon wrapped his other arm around his little one, rubbing his back gently. "Anytime you need this, I'll be here. You don't even have to say a word. Just come."

"I will," Obi-Wan promised.

It seemed he had nothing else to say, then. They just rested there in silence, enjoying the sweetness and warmth of the afternoon.

Just about when Qui-Gon realized that it was almost time for Julune to come home, Obi-Wan suddenly lifted his head, three little wrinkles appearing between his eyebrows.

"Where is Master Yoda?" he asked, young voice urgent, worried.

Qui-Gon blinked, then glanced around the common room, realizing that he hadn't seen the small Jedi for quite some time. "I don't know, sweetheart. I must have dozed off for a bit, and didn't see where he went." Though he didn't understand the reason for Obi-Wan's sudden panic, he was anxious to soothe it. "I'm sure he's all right. He's a Jedi Master."

Obi-Wan's eyes seemed to get even wider at that, a small shudder passing through his slight frame. He twisted his fingers in Qui-Gon's tunic and pulled sharply, emphasizing his concern. "Well, is he in the kitchen? Don't let him muck about in the kitchen! We _cannot_ have him cooking!"

Qui-Gon froze for a moment, utterly nonplussed. Then, quite to his own surprise, a deep laugh rumbled up through his belly, shook his chest, and roared out of his mouth in a sharp blast of merriment. Obi-Wan started at the sound, then stared at him in perplexity—this was obviously a very serious matter to _him._

Qui-Gon got himself under control with some difficulty, lacing his fingers over Obi-Wan's back in reassurance. "I'm sorry, dear one. I didn't mean to, to . . ." He choked back his laughter and tried again. "I take it that you've . . . ahem . . ." He cleared his throat, fighting away a squeak. ". . . you've tasted the results of Master Yoda's culinary expertise before?"

The boy nodded with grave solemnity.

"Is it that bad, my little one?"

Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. "Maybe not _bad . . ._ I don't know how to explain it. It's . . . it's _weird._ Really weird. I don't know what he puts in that stuff, but I don't think he gets it at the regular markets."

Try as he might, Qui-Gon could not prevent another chuckle from rumbling through his abdomen, shaking the slight body that rested atop him. "My dear child. For someone with such an enormous appetite, you certainly have a very narrow palate."

The wrinkles on the boy's forehead only deepened.

Qui-Gon continued to grin up at him. "Would you disagree?"

"Papa, I don't even know what that _means!"_

Laughing again, Qui-Gon pressed the boy tightly to him, reveling in the fact that he was allowed to do so, that Obi-Wan didn't stiffen or pull away. And he was suddenly glad—fiercely, fiercely glad. Glad that Obi-Wan didn't know what that meant, that there were still words he didn't understand, that there were some things he didn't know, hadn't yet learned. That he was still a child. That Qui-Gon and Julune still had time to teach him about being young, about family, about belonging.

About love unconditional and unchanging.

He sobered slightly and pulled back. Obi-Wan propped himself up on his father's chest again, and Qui-Gon kissed him in the middle of his wrinkled forehead. "Thank you, Obi-Wan."

It didn't seem possible, but the boy's confusion increased. "Whatever for?"

"For being who you are. My brave, selfless, honest, always-hungry little one." He grinned, then let it fade, looking Obi-Wan seriously in the eye. "You must know that it was very brave, what you did. Telling me and Master Yoda everything you went through, even though you were frightened to share these hard things. Your courage continually astonishes me."

Obi-Wan shook his head, his cheeks flushing gently in the softening light, but his eyes remained steady. "I didn't feel brave. I felt desperate, and lost, and very, very scared."

"My dear boy, you must know that courage is not a lack of fear. That is just foolishness. True courage is going on despite fear, to do what you know is right despite every obstacle that stands in your way, including your own healthy, completely-understandable-and-justifiable fear."

The youngster blinked once, slowly. "No, Papa. I don't know that at all."

This time Qui-Gon's smile was somewhat sad, though still genuine and warm. "Then you'll just have to take my word for it, all right? You are the bravest boy I've ever met. Never doubt it." He stroked his thumb over the boy's smooth cheek, gently rubbing away the tracks of dried tears. "By your own courage and grit and plain, stubborn tenacity, you passed through your fear, through all the trials you suffered, and you've come out the other side. You made it, Obi-Wan. You're safe now."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes with a tiny heave of a sigh and leaned into the touch, trusting, content.

Qui-Gon echoed his sigh, and nudged the tip of the pert little nose with the pad of one finger. "You deserve a rest, now. But I'm afraid that I have to ask you to be brave in yet another matter."

The boy's eyes fluttered reluctantly open, looking back at him gravely. He seemed to firm his shoulders, then, as if determined to be as brave as Qui-Gon thought he was. "What is it?"

Qui-Gon kept his voice gentle, unsure of how his son would react to this. "You know that your mother will be coming home from work soon. She's been just as worried for you as I have been. I'd like to . . . I'd like to tell her what you told us, if you don't feel up to repeating the story again. If you don't mind that, if you trust me, and trust her. But if you don't want me to, I won't."

Again the youngster blinked. "Oh, that? That's easy. I want Mama Julune to know, truly. I was going to ask you to tell her for me, actually."

"Oh. Well, that's settled then."

Qui-Gon chuckled in relief. It felt wonderful to be able to laugh, even if it was for the strangest reasons. And even more wonderful to see his boy's faint, hesitant smile, and to be hopeful that soon this would be a full-grown grin, and that in time the boy's own sweet, lovely laugh would return. In time.

"I'm really not brave, though." Obi-Wan seemed unable to let go of this idea. "You know I'm not. I'm scared to be alone. I'm scared to go outside—I, I'm even scared to talk, most of the time. And worst of all, I'm . . ." His voice lowered to bare a whisper, soft and ashamed. "I'm afraid of my mama. I don't want to be. I—I don't want any of that. But I can't—I can't help it. I don't want this, Papa. I don't want this at all." Gradually his voice rose as he spoke, until this last statement was strident, just short of an exclamation. "I don't want it. I don't want it. How can I get rid of it? I don't know how—I want to know!"

He pushed himself up, away from Qui-Gon, sitting as upright as he could with his legs still tangled with his father's. The afghans fell away and he pushed them off his lap, his hands shaking, his chest heaving. Qui-Gon sat up as well, anxious to soothe this sudden sorrow. But he didn't know what to do. He wanted to pull the boy into his arms, but wasn't sure if that was wise. He wanted to brush all of these fears away with wise words, but didn't know what to say. Instead they just sat there, the one struggling to breathe, the other struggling to find words.

"We all need help sometimes," Qui-Gon finally said, very softly. "There's no shame in it. We all have to learn how to deal with things outside of our experience. You . . . you've had a great shock. These past months have been horrible—absolutely horrible. And now you will need to learn how to deal with the consequences of that time to your body, mind, and spirit. It's unfair, completely and utterly unfair, because you didn't deserve any of that, and you don't deserve having to deal with the consequences now.

"But you'll never be alone, son. I swear it. I will never leave you to deal with this by yourself, and neither will your mother. We'll do everything we can to help you. And if we need to get others to help—like Master Yoda—we'll do that, too. You don't have to be alone, little one. You never have to be alone."

Obi-Wan just stared at him, wide-eyed, one hand pressed firmly over his mouth as if to suppress anything more he might have revealed. It was obvious that he wanted to believe this, but couldn't quite find the strength to do so. He had been much too alone for far too long.

Qui-Gon cast about for some way to help him make this leap, his gaze flicking wildly about the room as if searching for assistance. Then, finally, he had the glimmer of an idea. He held up one finger, indicating that Obi-Wan should be patient, and awkwardly climbed to his feet, shifting the afghans back over the boy's lap.

He stepped carefully over to that shelf full of knick-knacks by the front door, his eye caught and held by one particular item, small and ordinary and unassuming. Briefly he remembered what he had thought when his gaze fell on it when they returned home from Bandomeer, and he realized that he had been right. It was meant to be a gift for a thirteenth nameday. It was a little late for that now, as it was late for many things, but he prayed that the time could be made up.

Quick steps brought he back to the couch, and he sat beside his shivering son and placed the warm rock in his chilly palm. "I found this in the River of Light on my home planet. For years I carried it in my breast pocket, over my heart. It reminded of my home, my family. When Julune and I married I thought about giving it to her as a token, but it didn't feel right. She bears a ring, instead, with a small, perfect green gem. And now I see why this was not meant for her. It is yours. It should have been yours three months ago, but here it is now."

Obi-Wan looked up him in confusion, and dashed away the tears that threatened to fall. "A rock?" Still, his fingers curled protectively around the small token.

Qui-Gon gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and tapped the smooth surface with one finger. "Look closer."

The youngster obliged, casually at first, but then his gaze seemed to deepen, and he stared long and hard. Qui-Gon looked down on him, this slight young boy gazing so intently at a smooth river rock, marking each red line buried in the matrix of black as if memorizing a treasure map. He had to resist the urge to ruffle that red-gold hair, already mussed from sleeping, knowing that such an action would only earn him an irritated glare. But then, Obi-Wan was so lost in his concentration that he might not even notice.

He could feel a surging in the Force around them, like a storm about to break, and wondered if it might be Obi-Wan's inherent gifts instinctively attempting to reach out, to study the river rock through the Force despite this strange lock-down. The feeling was almost familiar. Qui-Gon had once come across a fallen nest in a forest, and when he lifted one small, still-warm egg, he felt this same sort of anticipation, a struggling to be free. The egg had seemed to shiver in his hand, and he felt a tiny scratching and chipping from within. It was hatching—the baby bird inside was beginning to fight its way out. For a long moment he had stood there, mesmerized, feeling the flow of young, growing life in that miraculous little egg. Then he had swiftly replaced the nest and the eggs, knowing that the youngsters would need to imprint on their parents when they emerged.

This . . . it felt similar, though fundamentally different. Was Obi-Wan ready to break free of his prison? Even subconsciously, was he trying to find a way out?

Whenever it happened, Qui-Gon vowed, he would be there to catch his son when he emerged.

After a time the boy looked up, his face calm, blue-green eyes alight within. "It's beautiful. I'll treasure it always."

"How does it . . . how does it feel?" Qui-Gon caught his lip against his teeth, waiting, hoping. Had Obi-Wan sensed something through the Force?

The youngster gave him a quizzical look, then regarded the river stone again, thoughtfully. "It feels . . . it feels warm. It feels . . . safe. Home." He looked up swiftly, flashing a quick, brilliant smile, true and bright, as he released a happy sigh. "It feels like . . . _you._ As long I have this stone, I'll know that you are with me."

Qui-Gon smiled, firmly denying the tears that pricked behind his eyelids. Surely there had been enough weeping for one day. But he could not deny the surge of happiness that rushed through him, deep, wide, and overpowering. With or without the Force, Obi-Wan had found the answer.

"That's right, son. You'll never be alone. Never."

_Someday I hope you know that truly._


	43. Julune and the Jedi

lune paused on the stoop, her hand reaching toward the door, her eyes transfixed on the wide picture window beside her as she watched the scene that unfolded on the other side. Her husband was walking toward the couch with something small cradled in his hand, and she could just see the top of her son's bright head peeking over the couch cushion. That was unusual—Obi-Wan usually took care to make sure that no part of him was visible from the windows, one small self-protective habit among many. Something must have happened to distract the boy from his constant wariness.

Qui-Gon sat on the couch, saying something, handing the small object to their little one. She recognized the intent look on her husband's face, the sorrow and love and tentative hope, the sweet, aching tenderness. It was a familiar expression—Qui-Gon wore it nearly all the time Obi-Wan was near. But now she saw something more there. The hope was stronger, a bit more certain, more eager.

Something had happened. Had another barrier been breached?

They had talked at length about this, in hushed murmurs under cover of soft darkness while their son slept uneasily between them. Both had seen that something more needed to be done, but neither knew what it was. Obi-Wan was not talking, and he was not healing, but they had been unsure of what to do about it. Qui-Gon must have found an answer while she was gone today.

Fierce joy surged through Julune, and she was grinning before she knew it. With light, eager steps, she backed away from the door and walked around to the back of the house. She would enter through the garden door into the kitchen and make dinner, giving her menfolk another hour to talk, to complete whatever process they had begun. It was actually Qui-Gon's turn to make the evening meal tonight, but she didn't mind at all.

Deft fingers found the latch on the heavy wooden gate that led into the garden, and she let herself in, delighting in the familiar, friendly squeak of the old-fashioned metal hinges. The garden was a grandeur of blooms and vegetation, and she paused for a moment to look over it, frowning lightly. Too many weeds. They really needed to take a day to maintain their garden.

After all, that was one reason they had been so eager to return to Thyferra—to be allowed to cultivate their beloved plants in peace, without the constant upset of moving. Now they would be able to give the redberry bushes the two years they needed before they could bear fruit, to plant perennials and start planning their rock garden, and to grow their own herbs for tea—so much better than anything available at the market. It was understandable that the garden had fallen by the wayside in recent days, but they shouldn't abandon it to complete ruin. Eventually—soon, maybe—Obi-Wan would want to come outside again, feel the sunlight, talk to the breeze. They ought to have a suitable place prepared for him. The boy had so loved that tiny, stunted garden on Bandomeer.

And speaking of tea . . . Julune wondered if any mynta was still growing in the herb patch. It was a hardy plant, and tended to grow well with no attention at all. Perhaps she could gather a few leaves for a cuppa. Qui-Gon liked his tea strong and black, and Obi-Wan seemed quite fond of marjili, but Julune would always love her mynta.

She walked toward the back corner of the garden, listening to the earthy clip of her shoes on the brick path that wandered haphazardly through the riot of green. Her feet, always aching of late, seemed soothed just to be where they were. She could smell the plump red vegetables ripening on their vines beside the path, feel the sun warm on her skin, hear the rustling of the breeze in the plants . . .

Julune paused. There wasn't much of a breeze. Why did she hear so much rustling? And that . . . that soft, irregular noise . . . was that someone's voice? She didn't recognize it.

The blood began to rush her in ears, her heart pounding, head whirling. Obi-Wan had been so afraid, so certain that someone was going to come after him, and now an intruder had found a way into their garden. The violation dizzied her.

And it angered her.

Julune's focus narrowed down to a pin-point, her brow furrowing, lips pinching together in concentration. No time for hysterics now. She had to act swiftly and surely. Her eyes cast about for a weapon, lighting on a small garden spade leaning against a nearby tree. It would do. Qui-Gon had taught her that anything could be deadly, with the right leverage and skill.

She scooped up the spade, hefting the wooden shaft experimentally in one hand. It was heavy. It would work.

The intruder was near the back corner, near the herbs, perhaps among them. All the worse. Julune stalked steadily nearer, pulling up her mental map of the garden to ascertain her position. She could hide behind the trellis near the back wall, jump out before her enemy knew she was there.

With soft steps she slipped into position, listening intently to the small movements and grunts of her quarry. She couldn't quite get a fix on whoever-it-was, couldn't make her fit her idea of a hulking, evil slaver—it sounded masculine, but not very intrusive. And not very stealthy at all. He obviously had no idea she was here.

The movements slowly moved closer, along with more rustling and soft murmuring in an odd, rough voice. Julune bided her time. Almost there . . .

Now! At the right moment, Julune jumped out from behind the trellis, sweeping the spade through the air with a shout.

And she nearly fell over when her weapon ended up pointing not at a man, but at a small green creature kneeling in the middle of her mynta patch, looking up at her with calm yellow eyes.

Big, pointed ears twitched with annoyance or amusement, and the creature lifted a tiny, three-clawed hand, still gripping the shaft of a weed. "Away put your weapon. I mean you no harm."

Julune's mouth dropped open, and she slowly lowered the spade, panting with adrenaline and shock, both swiftly ebbing. "You . . . you . . ." Her eyes narrowed swiftly. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you weeding my mynta?"

The wizened little creature dropped the plucked weed and stood easily on his feet, then bowed respectfully, his hands clasped over his chest. "Good greetings to you, Mistress Jinn. With you, the Force is. Strong, it is, in this place of growth and light."

Slowly a memory began to tug at a corner of her mind, and she pointed a trembling finger. "You're that . . . that little _Jedi_ Qui-Gon talked to over the comm. I wasn't paying much attention at the time. I can't remember your name. Have you come for Obi-Wan?" She frowned prodigiously, and raised the spade again. "You can't have him. He belongs here, with us, where he has a chance to be happy."

The gray-haired head nodded solemnly. "Great truth you speak, Julune Graffon-Jinn. Belong here, does Obi-Wan Kenobi. Or is his name Jinn now, as well?"

"We hadn't discussed it." Julune lowered the spade again, beginning to tremble gently now with spent adrenaline, so abruptly unneeded. She frowned lightly in thought. "I like the name Kenobi. Perhaps he'll want to hold on to that part of himself. We certainly can't erase his past, as much as we might like to. Maybe he should keep that part of his heritage."

"Kenobi-Jinn?" The strange being offered the compromise with wide, guileless eyes.

Julune nodded, then shook herself, angry that she had been so easily tricked into having a semi-normal discussion with an intruder she still wasn't sure she should trust. "You haven't answered my questions. Who are you? No wait, I remember—you're Master Yoda, the head of the Jedi Council. What are you doing here? Why did you come?"

The little Jedi Master blinked slowly. "Why? For the same reason that willing you were to take on any enemy single-handedly just to protect your son, Mistress Jinn. As for what—need tending, your garden does. Time it is to prepare the evening meal, and looking I was for nipu leaves."

"Oh." Julune blinked. "Those are in that corner of the herb patch, over here."

Quite without meaning to, she found herself abandoning the spade, and showing the small green Jedi where all of her herbs were planted. And soon enough they were kneeling, weeding, harvesting the needed snips and cuttings, and talking amiably and enthusiastically about every plant they knew.

X

Qui-Gon knew that it was getting toward time to start evening meal, and it was his turn. But he was very comfortable, just sitting here on the couch, looking out the window at the part of the garden that was visible from this angle—mainly the fruit trees and an edge of the vegetable plot. And despite his nap and the period of rest, he was exhausted. He would never have believed that "just" thinking and feeling could drain his energy as thoroughly as hours of hard physical labor. At least, he wouldn't have believed that before he met Julune—by now he had learned quite a bit about non-physical exertion.

And now Obi-Wan was teaching him more. Qui-Gon smiled softly, and glanced down at his boy. It hadn't taken long for the boy to shift closer to him on the couch, and he now leaned against the big man's muscular arm, head still bent as gazed down at his river rock, one thumb slowly rubbing the smooth surface. It still amazed Qui-Gon, when he stopped to reflect on it, how much he still had to learn, how much this incredible child had revealed to him already. The universe was a marvelous place, hiding its most brilliant treasures in the most hidden and shadowed corners. How unlikely was it, that a former Jedi, a wanderer, and a scientist could form a family? Yet they had. And it was beyond beautiful, despite—or because of—its many flaws.

Eventually Qui-Gon became aware of cheerful, friendly voices in the kitchen, and lifted his head in curiosity. He hadn't heard the back door open. But then, he hadn't been paying very careful attention.

He glanced back at Obi-Wan, and saw the red-gold head tilted upward, looking in the same direction. The boy felt the gaze on him and looked up, meeting his father's eyes.

"Something's up." Qui-Gon tipped his head toward the kitchen. "Want to check it out?"

Obi-Wan nodded easily. They managed to untangle the afghans twisted over them without too much awkwardness and made their way to the wide doorway. There Qui-Gon paused, his mouth dropping open slightly in shock. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this.

Yoda stood on the counter beside the heating surface, stirring a pot with one hand as he sprinkled something into it with the other. Julune sat at the table a couple of feet away, chopping vegetables with practiced ease. And they were _chattering._ About _plants._

Julune and a Jedi. Julune and Master Yoda, no less. He never would have guessed.

Qui-Gon may have uttered some sort noise, perhaps a squeak or a strangled hiccup. Whatever it was, Julune looked up, her face immediately breaking out in a broad, brilliant grin.

"Hello, darling! Did you have a good day?"

Qui-Gon blinked. He really didn't know how to answer that. No short answer would suffice, and a good answer would take far too long. He settled on something between a nod and a shrug, then looked down at his little one, who was watching the proceedings with a very glum expression.

"Master Yoda is cooking," he said in a voice meant for Obi-Wan's ears alone. "Are you all right with that?"

Obi-Wan glanced up at him, then sighed heavily and looked at the Jedi calmly standing on their counter. "Are you making soup, Master Yoda?" he asked respectfully.

The small Master nodded his head once in easy agreement. "For the first course, it is."

The boy sighed again, even more deeply and dolefully, and looked up at Qui-Gon with the largest, saddest eyes the man had ever seen.

Qui-Gon had to struggle not to laugh. He swallowed the chuckles bubbling up through his chest with some difficulty, and fashioned his expression into one of sympathy and understanding. "I'm sorry, little one."

He looked back to his wife and their small guest and spread his hands in helpless acceptance. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

Of course, there was.


	44. Prove It to Me

Qui-Gon actually enjoyed the soup. It was different from anything else he'd ever eaten in all of his varied experience, and he liked trying new things. Yoda had obviously used some spices that Qui-Gon had never encountered before (Did the little Jedi Master carry herbs around with him wherever he went? First the cool-brewed tea, now this!), but he found it quite tasty. Most of the flavors were familiar, the vegetables freshly harvested from their own garden, the meat from the market in downtown Hilara City.

Julune and Yoda ate their meal with apparent relish, seeming very satisfied with their collaborative efforts. As for Obi-Wan . . . well, he ate it. Not enthusiastically, but apparently without pain. It was not strange that he said nothing for the entire meal, even while Yoda chatted kindly about the Temple, giving news of the boy's old friends and teachers. A few days ago this would have disconcerted Qui-Gon, but by now he was almost used to this new, silent Obi-Wan.

Yet that somehow made it all the worse.

After the meal Qui-Gon took care to make sure that Obi-Wan would be all right if his parents went into another room for a time, leaving the Jedi and the boy to clean up. Obi-Wan's hand clenched hard over the pocket where Qui-Gon knew he had placed the river stone, and his forehead wrinkled in that new, familiar worry, but he nodded. It was a sign of progress, the first time the youngster had agreed to even a short separation from his papa. But it pained Qui-Gon almost as much as it pained his boy, and he promised to make it short.

Julune was confused, but followed Qui-Gon's tug on her elbow willingly. And then he told her, speaking rapidly when he could, pausing to choke down his emotions when he could not. She sat on the corner of the bed in their master chamber, very still, watching him pace furiously as he talked. He saw her fists clench, tighter and tighter, the knuckles blanching, watched her eyes grow harder and brighter, face paling as two whitish-red spots stood against her cheeks.

"They _dared,"_ she hissed when he paused for a moment to contain himself, her voice a raw tremor of fury. "They _dared_ to do that to an innocent boy, to _my_ innocent boy . . ."

He nodded shortly. "Yes. They dared. And oh, Julune, you haven't even heard the worst of it . . ."

By the end of the story she was weeping, shaking, hard little fists pressed against her mouth to restrain her rage. Qui-Gon sat on the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms, rubbing her rigid back, willing some of his hard-fought calm to transfer over to his wife. She was volcanic, longing to erupt, holding herself back only because there was nothing here capable of absorbing so powerful an outburst.

"They used him," she half-whispered, half-wailed into his ear. "Like a toy, they used him, made him do things, made him believe things about himself that are not true. Oh, Qui-Gon, Qui-Gon, they hurt him so badly! Tell me where they are, so I can kill them."

"I don't know, darling. Obi-Wan doesn't know. If I knew, I'd go with you. You know that."

She nodded stiffly against his shoulder, but still her enraged shaking did not ease. "No wonder. No wonder he's afraid. I would probably be catatonic."

Qui-Gon just shook his head in wonder. "Really, he's handling it all extraordinarily well. Thirteen, and so very brave and strong. But he needs us, needs us badly. Even if we knew where to go, we couldn't, not now. We cannot fail him."

"We won't." Julune's voice was a proclamation, channeling all of her intense feeling, her urgent to need to _do_ something, into those two words. She sat back to look into his eyes, reaching out to grab his shoulders, sharp fingers digging into his flesh. "And do you realize, Qui-Gon? He chose us. When he escaped, he could have gone to the galactic authorities, or the Jedi, or anywhere. But he came here. He needed his papa and his mama, and he knew it."

Qui-Gon hesitated, then nodded slowly, warmed by the thought. It was nice to be wanted. But even that made him ache, for he knew that Obi-Wan had felt decidedly the opposite for most of his short life.

After they had had enough time to calm down, they went back to the kitchen, and found their son waiting for them with both hands clenched around his river rock, towel forgotten on the counter behind him. Yoda placidly did the dishes by himself, managing with an ease that was wondrous to see.

Julune went directly to Obi-Wan, wrapping her hands gently around his rigid shoulders. Her eyes were suddenly wet again, but her voice was firm. "Never again, baby. No one will ever treat you that way again. I won't stand for it."

He looked up at her with utter trust, and nodded solemnly. Qui-Gon knew that she longed to pull the boy into an embrace, but she was a sensitive woman, for all her passion. She saw the wariness, the distance, as clearly as her husband did. Not yet. Almost, but not quite yet.

Still, that night it was Julune who spread the antibiotic cream over Obi-Wan's healing wounds, then rubbed in soothing bacta, her fingers deft and careful. The boy lay silent under her ministrations, less tense and shaky than yesterday, but still not completely at ease. It was enough. They were getting there, slowly.

As they had done each of the preceding four nights, Qui-Gon and Julune settled down on either side of their sleepy son, listening to his breathing slow and even. He needed both of them, they knew now. Yesterday Julune had been called been back to the corp in the evening because of a complication in one of her experiments, and had been gone for hours. It wasn't until Qui-Gon felt her gentle weight settle on the other side of the bed that Obi-Wan finally slipped into a true, deep slumber, the ragged breaths easing into peace.

It was strange, the way Obi-Wan both needed his mama and shrank from her. Qui-Gon didn't like it. But he knew that Julune liked it even less, and that Obi-Wan felt the worst of the three of them. Ah, if only this boy could learn to stop blaming himself for things that were beyond his control. That would be a very large step toward healing all of this.

They had offered Master Yoda the use of the guest room, but the last Qui-Gon had seen of him, the little green Jedi seemed to be settling down for meditation in the common room. Now when Qui-Gon stretched out with a thin tendril of the Force, just checking, he was met with the strong current of the small Master, greeting and welcoming, and revealing the golden shield that surrounded them all in warm security. There would be no disturbances to mar their rest, no bumps in the night, no faces at the window. Though still that could not protect against internal turmoil, could not push back the shade of evil dreams, Qui-Gon was grateful. He wondered if Yoda would meditate all night, if Jedi could do without sleep.

Well, in any case, ordinary humans usually welcomed sleep with joy. Qui-Gon settled his head back against the pillow with a soft sigh, willing his body into relaxation. Focusing on the breathing of his wife and son, he prepared to follow them into slumber. But he changed his mind when he recognized that Obi-Wan was not asleep, only laying very tense and still, waiting, once again curled up in that protective ball.

"Obi-Wan?" It was a gentle whisper, open, not loud enough to wake Julune. "Is something wrong?"

For a moment the stillness held. Then Obi-Wan seemed to force himself to relax, laying over on his back. "I can't figure it out," he murmured. "Do you . . . do you think you could prove it to me?"

"I'll certainly try, if you let me know what it is." Qui-Gon spoke with gentle humor, carefully skimming his hand over the crumpled blankets toward his boy. He found the warm, smooth cheek and rested his cupped palm there, feeling the fluttering of long eyelashes soft against his callused fingers. After a moment he lifted his arm and laid it stretched out on the pillow above the boy's head, as if adding an extra wall of protection, surrounding the boy completely now, with a parent on each side and the thick quilt over him.

Obi-Wan rolled over to face his father, then scooted closer, and laid his head on the man's broad shoulder with all the confidence and sweetness of a small, sleepy child. A tiny sigh escaped him when Qui-Gon's arm curled instinctively around the slight frame, pressing him close, and he nestled in a little more. "I've been thinking and thinking, and I can't make sense of it. You kept saying it over and over, and I know you believe it to be true, but I just don't understand."

"Hmm. I said quite a few things over and over, and yes, I do believe them all very strongly." Qui-Gon stroked his thumb along the boy's arm. "Which one are you thinking of?"

Obi-Wan drew in a deep breath, then took the plunge. "You said that I wasn't to blame, that none of it was my fault."

"Ah." And Qui-Gon stared up at the dark ceiling, trying to make some kind of order out of the tangle his thoughts had suddenly become.

The boy's voice was very small. "Could you prove it to me?" He shifted uncomfortably, though he did not move away from his father's side. "I mean, I'll understand if you can't. I know some things can't actually be proven, that you just have to believe, and I'm sorry that I can't quite make myself believe this, but I've tried, and I just don't . . ."

"Obi-Wan. Shhh." Qui-Gon tenderly brushed his thumb over those quivering lips, stilling the rush of words. "It's true, sweetheart, and it not just something you have to believe. It's an uncontroversial fact. I would say the same to anyone else who was in your position, who had been mistreated and abused, manipulated and deceived. I was just thinking about how best to put it into words."

"Oh." The boy went very still, and Qui-Gon could feel the brilliant eyes fastened on him in the dark.

Qui-Gon just breathed for a moment, feeling the boy quiver gently with anticipation, hopeful that this could be proved, but fearful that it could not.

"All right, let's try it this way," the elder Jinn said at last, slowly, putting his thoughts in order. "Do you remember in the garden on Bandomeer, when we talked about how a person can change their own future, make decisions, such as whether or not to turn to the Dark Side?"

"I remember." The small voice trembled the worse. "You said that you believed I would never turn. I'm sorry . . . I failed . . ."

"No, no." Qui-Gon pressed him even closer, brought his other arm around to help. It took an effort to keep his voice low—he wanted to shout this. "You didn't turn to the Dark Side, little one. I'll never believe that. But that's a discussion for another time, all right? Listen. We decided that each person makes their own choices, yes?"

"Yes." It was a faint tremor of sound, small and weak.

"And what if . . ." He drew in a breath in pain. This hurt to think about. "What if Knight Dooku did decide to turn? That would be his choice, wouldn't it?"

"Yes." This was a bit more certain.

"Would I be to blame for that choice? Would his Master be to blame, or any of his friends at the Temple?"

"No." Obi-Wan's hand lifted slowly, then curled in the fabric of his sleep-tunic, and Qui-Gon realized with bemusement, and a flash of sharp, blinding love, that the boy was offering comfort to _him_ against this harsh possibility of his Jedi friend turning.

"It would hurt me, though," Qui-Gon whispered. "It would hurt all of the Jedi."

Obi-Wan nodded against his shoulder, faint but certain. "Yes. It would hurt you a lot." And his fingers tightened.

Qui-Gon smiled. Perhaps pure logic would work. "Then we would be suffering for something that wasn't our fault, wouldn't we?"

For a moment the boy was silent. Then: "Yes."

"Do you see where this is going?"

The youngster was sharp—he would never try to deny that. Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably again, unable to agree or disagree. Qui-Gon's logical was obvious, but Obi-Wan could not accept his conclusion. "But, Papa . . . I made choices, too. And they were bad. Like not meditating, not paying attention to the moment. And they led to . . . those choices were mine, my fault!"

"Mistakes, sweetheart. They were mistakes. You did not deliberately choose to do wrong. There's a difference. No one should have to suffer so for an innocent mistake, especially not someone like you, small and inexperienced and completely faultless. I don't say that to make you feel weak—that's not my point. But you are young, and young people deserve to be protected by those older and stronger than themselves. The failure was not yours, son. It was mine." He trembled, but went on, his voice strident. "Mine, and that of every adult who entered your life and did not take adequate pains to care for you—your teachers at the Temple, Knight Xanatos, the Agri-Corps workers. We all had a share in the responsibility of protecting you, and we all failed you."

"No, Papa." Again the slender fingers tightened, though the soft voice lowered to a tight murmur. "You never failed me. Never. Don't think that. If it wasn't a choice I made then, maybe it was something earlier, something very, very bad, so I had to be . . . I had . . ." He trailed off, struggling to breathe. "It must have been me. You just don't see it."

"You feel you had to be punished, my Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon asked sadly. "Such a terrible burden to bear, to believe something so awful of yourself. No, I do not believe that. Nothing you could ever do could ever, ever be terrible enough to deserve such torment."

"But it _must_ have been . . ."

"Why? Why do you insist on taking this blame on your own shoulders?"

The boy began to shake violently, his voice wet with tears in the starless dark. "It had to be. It had to be me. It just . . . it doesn't make sense otherwise. It doesn't make sense . . ."

Qui-Gon pressed him even closer, tucking the trembling head under his chin where he could feel the stifled tears warm on the sensitive skin of his throat. He was beginning to catch a glimmer of understanding. "Doesn't make sense, you say . . ." he murmured. "Oh, my dear child. You believe in justice, don't you? You believe in a justice that rules everything, from the smallest creature to the brightest star."

Confusion rippled through Obi-Wan like a cold current in a troubled sea, but he nodded shakily. "That's what the Force is . . . that's what the Jedi work to uphold . . ."

"Justice, yes." He rubbed the thin, knotted shoulders. "And so you believe that there must be a reason for everything that happens. Good is a reward for good behavior, evil a punishment for faults."

It was the reasoning of a child, pure and clear and absolute. Only black and white, no shades of gray, everything fair and balanced. Every little one thought this of the world, Qui-Gon knew, remembering his own boyhood. Such a shock it was to discover the truth, to cry in outrage, "But that isn't fair!" and to hear the cold answer, "Life isn't fair." No youngster wanted to believe that terrible truth, and learning it was like falling unprepared from a great height to an unyielding surface. It was a breaking experience, harsh and traumatic.

No doubt the simple moralistic teaching younglings in the Temple received had strengthened this pure right-and-wrong reasoning, and Obi-Wan had not been old enough for deep philosophy before he was sent away. How horrible that he had had to learn in this most extreme of ways, and that he had not had the depth of knowledge to process it. Perhaps Qui-Gon could fill in the gaps now.

"How lovely the universe would be if that were true, my Obi-Wan. I'm sorry to tell you that it is not so."

Obi-Wan shivered against him, unwilling or unable to grasp this. "What . . . what are you saying?"

"I'm so sorry, little one. Life isn't fair. The universe is not just. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people. You did not deserve to be abused. Your master did not deserve his power over you. You were not to blame. You never were. Sometimes we are dealt bad cards, and we have to play what is in our hand."

Obi-Wan shook his head in instinctive protest, his fingers digging yet deeper. "I don't . . . I don't understand."

Qui-Gon sorrowed for this. His son had already lost so much, and now he had to let go of yet more, let a piece of his understanding of the most fundamental structures of the universe slip away from his grasping fingers. But perhaps the learning would be good, would bring release. Truth could only heal, even if the healing hurt.

He decided to try yet another tack with this large and unwieldy problem. "Tell me something, Obi-Wan. Do you have any friends at the Jedi Temple?"

The boy tilted his head slightly at this sudden shift of conversation, but he followed willingly enough. "Yes. I had a few close friends."

"Master Yoda mentioned them at the table this evening. Garen, Reeft . . . Bant?"

Qui-Gon could almost feel Obi-Wan's smile in the darkness, and he certainly felt the boy relax against him. "Yes. They were my best friends."

"Tell me about them. Tell me about Bant."

Obi-Wan settled against him, relaxing into the tale, his voice soft and nostalgic. "Bant is a Mon Calamarian, the best swimmer I know. Her eyes are silver. She's a year younger than me, but she's still pretty good with a lightsaber. She is the gentlest of all my friends, always trying to make us get along, letting us know that she cares about us. We used to talk like Master Yoda when we spoke to each other, just being silly."

"She sounds like a good friend." Qui-Gon gentled his voice, glad to find such soothing memories here. He should have asked the child about his life sooner. It was good to learn about him, what he had experienced.

"She's the best," Obi-Wan agreed complacently, certain, with a youngster's confidence, and _his_ best friend was the definitely the best in the galaxy, bar none.

"Of course she was. But, Obi-Wan, what if no Master picked her, and she got sent to the Agri-Corps?"

The boy's body stiffened suddenly in alarm. "That wouldn't happen! She's a wonderful student! A Master has probably chosen her already."

"Yes, yes, of course," Qui-Gon soothed. "But just suppose."

Obi-Wan relaxed, marginally, and bobbed a stiff little nod.

"And what if, while she was at the Agri-Corps, one of the older workers started picking on her? Suppose that he threatened her, said that she would get in trouble if she told someone, or he would hurt one of her friends. Suppose this went on for quite a long time. And then this bully took advantage of her, hurt her badly. Suppose she was confused and frightened, and could not fight back, afraid that he would hurt her friends, or even kill her. Suppose this went on for quite a long time, and no one knew."

The boy shook with fury. "That's horrible! That's the most awful thing I've ever heard!"

"Oh, but, Obi-Wan, she didn't tell anyone. Shouldn't she have told someone?"

"Well, maybe, but she's afraid! Bant is a such a sweet, gentle being—she wouldn't be able to stand it!"

"But shouldn't she fight back? Shouldn't she at least try?"

"How? He'll just hurt her worse! What could she do?"

"Well, she could have prevented being sent to the Agri-Corps in this first place. She must have been a terrible student, if no Master noticed her."

"No, no, no. Bant is a wonderful Jedi. She could never deserve being sent away."

"All right, all right." Qui-Gon brushed his hand over Obi-Wan's head, trying to soothe his agitated trembling. "Suppose that she finally gathered her courage and went to Heim Shilbey and told him what was happening. Master Shilbey put a stop to it immediately, of course, and the bully was sent away. But Bant still felt terribly guilty, and her heart was very sore. She thought that it was her own fault that it had happened, that she must have done something very, very bad to deserve that. If you learned about it and were able to talk to her, what would you say?"

By this point Obi-Wan was crying, shaking hard, his voice cracked with pain for his friend and passion against her supposed persecutor. "I w-would . . . I would t-tell her that none of it w-was her fault, that she didn't d-deserve any of that. And I would want to b-be with her and hug her and promise that no one would ev-ever hurt her again, because I w-would protect her alw-ways. That's so terrible, Papa Qui-Gon! How could anyone do that to Bant?"

"I don't know, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered, hugging the boy tightly to him, stroking his hair, trying to dry his tears while blind in the dark. "I don't know how anyone could do that to her. And I don't understand how anyone could do what Andros Martin and Miko Belimi did you, my sweet, precious child. I don't understand at all. It's not fair. It's not fair at all."

The boy clung to his father, still shaking and weeping. But, finally, he seemed to understand. His voice came small and rough, weakly daring to believe. "It w-wasn't her fault. It w-wasn't . . . it wasn't my fault?"

"No, sweetheart." Qui-Gon pressed a kiss to that beloved, wrinkled little forehead, and then another one. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault."

And he began to hope that perhaps he had finally succeeded in proving it to this dear boy. Not through logic or philosophy or any of the most reasonable arguments that existed, but through the youngster's tender heart, his love for an absent friend. Qui-Gon might have known it would be so.


	45. "The Nicest Feeling in the World"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the last chapter. Sorry.

It had rained last night. Qui-Gon knew this before he even opened his eyes, and not only because the fresh scent of rain had permeated the house from some window left carelessly open. A slight nip in the air kissed his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and a warm, sleeping body was pressed up against his side. Julune always snuggled up to him in her sleep whenever the air had the slightest chill in it, which was why he sometimes deliberately left a window open in the cool season. A bit sneaky, but very effective. Birds sang outside, announcing the arrival of the sun, which was no doubt glinting off new puddles and the erratic streaks of raindrops on the windows.

Qui-Gon opened one eye and peeked at the face laying on his shoulder. Obi-Wan. The boy seemed completely peaceful, for once, though his face still bore the traces of dried tears, as fresh and as cleansing as the traces of rain. His body was relaxed against Qui-Gon's, finally, not curled up in that tense little ball that had become so familiar.

And there on the other side of the smaller, slighter body of their son was Julune, curled up against them for warmth and still soundly asleep, her mouth slightly agape. Qui-Gon smiled fondly. This was more normality than they had achieved for days—Julune sleeping like the dead, Obi-Wan relaxed and at peace, Qui-Gon watching them both. This was the way it was supposed to be.

Obi-Wan sighed in his sleep and nestled his head a little nearer to Qui-Gon's chest. Julune cuddled even closer as he shifted away, muttering a displeased little grunt at the removal of warmth. Qui-Gon tried not to laugh, he truly did, but he lost that battle quickly. He managed to keep his mouth shut, but his chest rumbled, bouncing Obi-Wan's head just the tiniest bit. Unfortunately, the boy still slept very lightly, though obviously with more peace, now, and he woke immediately, blinking dazedly around as he tried to orient himself.

"Good morning, little one," Qui-Gon murmured, trying to erase the confusion before it appeared. "I love you."

"Papa Qui-Gon?" the boy's voice was small and rough, but not fearful. He looked up at his father and yawned, not wasting the energy to cover his mouth. He managed a faint little smile. "You keep saying that."

Qui-Gon returned his smile sadly. "Perhaps one of these times you'll believe me."

Obi-Wan let his head fall back on the man's broad shoulder. "I do believe you," he said softly. "You prove it with everything you do."

"But you don't believe yet that this is forever."

A sad little sigh shuddered through the thin body. "I'm trying to believe."

"I know. We'll help you."

Obi-Wan nodded, and seemed to become aware of the unexpected warmth at his back. He peeked over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of his mama curled up so close. He looked up at his papa a bit wildly.

"She gets chilly at night," Qui-Gon explained, grinning. "And you're a nice, warm little cuddle cub."

"I am?" The boy's eyes seemed to widen even further at this strange thought. He glanced back at Julune again, then carefully, gently rolled onto his back, sandwiched snugly between his parents. He looked from one to the other in something very like wonder.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Qui-Gon asked softly.

Obi-Wan considered the question seriously, then shook his head. "I think I'm exactly the opposite of uncomfortable."

"This . . ." It was Julune's voice, rough and sluggish. Her body was still, her eyes shut. ". . . is the nicest feeling in the world."

Obi-Wan turned his head to study his mother's face, only a hand span from his own. "Are you awake?" he whispered after a moment.

"Yes," she muttered, her voice still clogged with sleep. "But I don't like it and I'm trying not to be."

Qui-Gon couldn't help but laugh again, the effort of keeping it all-but-silent jiggling the entire bed. "That's your mama," he said with great affection. "She does everything with her whole self, all the passion she has in her. Sleeping. Working, gardening, cooking. Loving you. Loving me."

"And don't you forget it," Julune said firmly, then went still, apparently still trying to recapture slumber.

Obi-Wan nodded thoughtfully. For a small time they lay in silence, letting Julune rediscover sleep. Eventually the boy turned back to his papa, though. "But are _you_ uncomfortable?"

That was his boy, always thinking of others. Qui-Gon shook his head. "Exactly the opposite." He paused, thinking. "I can remember being small, a little younger than you. When I had a bad dream I would go to my parents' chamber and crawl in bed between them, just the way you are now. It was the best feeling in the world, as Julune said. I like being here again."

"Lucky," Julune murmured, obviously not asleep again. "I missed that after my parents died. Snuggling with Uncle Javis wasn't quite the same, though of course he did his best."

"I never did anything like that," Obi-Wan said, staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

"Well, you're welcome to do it now anytime you like."

"Even after I can sleep by myself again?"

"Especially then. Anytime you like, you come to our chamber and jump in. Just try not to land on my stomach, please."

"Nor mine," Julune said, opening one eye to peer down at her burgeoning tummy.

"Oh, never," Obi-Wan said earnestly, horrified by the thought.

Julune smiled softly, laying a hand tenderly on her growing womb. "I know you wouldn't. I was teasing, dear."

Qui-Gon reached across the boy to rest his fingers over hers, sensing the quickening within. "Hmm. I think the baby is up early today. Is that why you couldn't go back to sleep?"

She nodded ruefully. "He's usually most active in late afternoon."

"You mean she."

"No, I don't."

They grinned at each other. Obi-Wan looked at them as if they were crazy. Julune laughed softly in his face, then slipped her hand from under Qui-Gon's and took the boy's, and laid it gently against her stomach. "Can you feel it?"

Obi-Wan flashed her a wide-eyed glance, then looked back at her stomach, their hands next to Qui-Gon's. Qui-Gon lifted his palm and laid it over the back of the two smaller hands, maneuvering them around slightly, molding slender fingers over the contour of Julune's abdomen. "There. Concentrate."

The young brow furrowed as Obi-Wan obeyed, drawing all his senses in close, though he was missing the one that had been the most important to him. His parents watched in delight as wonder and awe began to glow in his face, starting in his eyes and melting outward to encompass everything. Qui-Gon felt the tiny flutter, like the wings of a tiny bird, and smiled in broad contentment.

"That's incredible," Obi-Wan breathed, his voice a mere whisper of sound.

"And it only going to grow stronger," Julune said warmly. "So I've heard, anyway. In a month or so that strong little boy is going to be kicking so hard I won't be able to nap anymore."

"Strong little girl," Qui-Gon corrected. "Your baby sister, Obi-Wan."

"Baby brother."

And they laughed at each other.

X

To Obi-Wan's relief, Master Yoda had not prepared breakfast for them. Julune had to eat a quick bowl of porridge right before she left for work, which left the three males to linger over their food, chatting pleasantly of inconsequential things. Qui-Gon kept it deliberately light, giving Obi-Wan a chance to recover from yesterday's heaviness.

And for the first time since Martin, the boy was willing to respond, to speak up, though each word was tentative and testing. This pleased Qui-Gon almost as much as his son's earlier, casually voiced question about _when_ he would be able to sleep by himself again, which had shown him that Obi-Wan both knew that he had a problem and was confident that it would heal with time. He wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't just burst with pride one of these times the youngster proved again how very brave and capable he was.

"What would you like to do today, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon asked at a convenient lull. He was still somewhat at a loss as to what he ought to do now. On Bandomeer they had taken long walks as Obi-Wan's strength returned, worked in the garden, looked at the clouds. While indoors they were often meditating together. None of these were options now. They could still take care of household tasks, cook, and read in the evenings, but it didn't seem enough to fill the time.

True enough, over the past few days Obi-Wan had spent more time sleeping than anything else, as his body recovered physically from his ordeal. But he seemed decidedly more alert this morning, perhaps because a heavy weight had been lifted, invisible until it had gone, they had all grown so used to it. Now their lives would have to find a new rhythm, one that would hopefully grow stronger and more joyful with the passing of each day.

Obi-Wan shrugged minutely, his shoulders just barely moving up and down. His eyes were trained on his food, as usual, and he held his spoon with great care, as if it might fly away if he didn't keep an eye on it. He had already eaten two bowls of porridge, with a large proportion of the contents of the syrup pitcher to make it palatable. Qui-Gon didn't grudge a single drop.

"Please look at me," he ordered, with great tenderness. It was time to help the boy unlearn what he had learned.

He waited until the blue-green gaze met his, hesitant, uncertain, but clearer today than it had been since Bandomeer. Then he asked again. "Do you have any ideas about how you'd like to spend the time? We can do whatever you wish. I am at your disposal."

Qui-Gon grinned cheekily at that, and was surprised to see something very like fright flash through those clear young eyes. Still, he was determined to prove that he was serious about this—he wanted Obi-Wan to begin to make decisions again, even if it was over something as simple as whether they should read a holo-book or play a game. Patiently, expectantly, he held the boy's eyes and waited.

"W-whatever you want is f-fine," Obi-Wan stuttered, instinctively ducking his head, then slowly looking back up again. Still trying to please . . .

"No longer are you in the house of your master, youngling," Master Yoda said, his neutral gaze and calm voice somehow making it easier for them to hear his words. "You have no master, neither slave-owner nor Jedi. Parents, you have now. Changed, everything has."

"I—I know."

But it was obvious that Obi-Wan did not. He didn't understand what this meant. Over the past few days he had begun to catch an inkling, but there was no way he could possess the experience to fully comprehend the new life that had fallen into his lap. Nothing that had ever happened to him could have prepared him for this.

"All right, let's try this different way," Qui-Gon said.

Gently he reached out and moved Obi-Wan's porridge bowl away, toward the center of the table—it was obvious that the youngster wasn't going to eat any more now. The simple gesture worked to fix the boy's full attention on him, though he still held his spoon frozen in the air, and only his eyes moved. Qui-Gon sat back in his chair, pushing his own bowl away as well, and focused completely on his son, though he folded his hands over his chest with deceptive casualness.

 _I'm listening to you,_ he tried to tell the boy with body language and tone, everything he had, because they could no longer feel each other through the Force. Only now did he realize how much their instinctive bond had helped to lubricate their communication, drawing them close and tight in the scant space of a few days. Now they would have to find other ways to continue on the same path, though hopefully this was a temporary condition. _I'm completely open to you. Nothing matters to me right now except you and what you have to say to me._

He hoped Obi-Wan heard. Not with his ears, but with his heart.

"You seemed curious earlier, when Julune and I were talking," Qui-Gon began. "I thought you might have something to say, but you didn't. Did you have a question for us? I'd like to answer it."

Silence. Obi-Wan sat frozen, though Qui-Gon saw his throat convulse as he swallowed. The boy did have something to say. But he couldn't figure out how to do it.

And it was no wonder, after three months of being crushed under another's boot, never allowed to be himself, slowly making himself smaller and smaller until he all but disappeared. No doubt he had been chastened for asking questions, even to clarify his own tasks. He had made himself quiet and invisible to avoid punishment, and he had learned the lesson very well. The bright, energetic, eager young student Master Yoda and the other Jedi had known at the Temple had been forced to vanish inside this pale, silent shell. All this to attain mere survival. It wasn't living.

Qui-Gon wanted his son to live again. So he waited.

"I did . . ." Obi-Wan choked, and tried again. "I did, I did . . . wonder." His voice broke, his face screwing up with the effort this was taking, but he pressed determinedly on. "You spoke about . . . about your parents. I wondered . . . does this mean I have a grandma and grandpa now?"

Qui-Gon felt a broad, warm grin spread across his face, and did not fight it. "You do indeed," he said, with perhaps more enthusiasm than the question warranted. "And a great-uncle as well, you know. Uncle Javis. And several aunts and uncles on my side. And cousins! You have cousins, too. As soon we can, we'll have to visit my family, or have them come here. Would you like that?"

Obi-Wan nodded, a bit jerkily, absently tracing circles on the tablecloth with his well-polished spoon. "Very much. I . . . I don't remember having family before. I visited mine when, when I was an initiate, just once. But there was an accident . . . they died . . . I had a brother named Owen . . . I hardly knew them, but . . . but I still felt as if I had died inside, too. Isn't that funny?" He laughed, a strangled little sound.

"No," Qui-Gon said, very soberly and quietly, He reached across the table and laid a hand on the thin arm, halting its restless movement. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. I didn't know that. It's not funny at all."

The boy nodded again, swallowing, looking away from a moment. Then his eyes met Qui-Gon's, stronger now. "I'd like to meet your family."

"Our family."

"Our family." And there was a smile, bright through the sheen of old tears, a brilliant thing, a gift from a shadowed sky. "Do I have younger cousins, or older?"

"Both." Qui-Gon sat back with a small chuckle. "I've been teased mercilessly about how long it's taking for me to add to the number. Everyone is desperately anxious for Julune to give birth so they can meet the new little one. Won't they be surprised when they find out that I have _two_ children now!"

"Surprised?" Obi-Wan tilted his head, almost with that old teasing look, but not quite.

"Surprised, and overjoyed." Qui-Gon gave his arm a little squeeze. "It will be wonderful, Obi-Wan, I promise you."

"I . . . I look forward to it."

After that, talking wasn't nearly so difficult anymore.


End file.
